


Theft, and Wandering Around Lost

by blueruin



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Anxiety, Depression, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-07 19:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueruin/pseuds/blueruin
Summary: A sad and weary Zayn takes refuge in a 24-hour bookshop owned by a ridiculously attractive goober named Harry. After weeks of admiring Harry from afar, Zayn finally works up the courage to talk to him. They flirt, they talk about books, and they fall in love. But unbeknownst to the people who care about him, Zayn struggles to get up every morning to battle the same demons that rendered him weak and useless the night before. It’s difficult - and sometimes physically impossible - but he tries everyday for those who matter.Featuring a multitude of book discussions, ruminations on life, swearing, waxing poetic about Harry’s Harryness, Malik family dynamics, the inner workings of Zayn’s brain, small acts of bravery, and a ton of flirting.





	1. Someday, Some Morning, Sometime

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful moderators for organizing this collab and to [strutliam](http://strutliam.tumblr.com) for working on this [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDsYHsWAxSE) to accompany the fic. Sending love and hugs to you from my side of the world!
> 
> There are mentions of anxiety, depression, and executive dysfunction in this story, which I've based on my own experiences. In fact, some of Zayn's internal monologues could have been lifted straight from my own journals. This story began with an idea that eventually transformed into a monster of a fic that I didn't know I needed to write. I set out to write something that would shed a light on what I go through everyday, but I didn't realize until I was in the middle of writing it that doing so would cause me so much distress. It was difficult, and there was a lot of crying, but I stuck through it, and this story became therapeutic for me. It was a cathartic experience writing this monster, and I'm proud of the result.
> 
> The title of the fic is from a Cocteau Twins song, which doesn't have anything to do with the story. Each chapter title is also taken from a song, and the first one is from Billy Bragg & Wilco's "Someday, Some Morning, Sometime."
> 
> Here's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/yaygeometry/playlist/6LJCTFsUq1gCYzwEHpUPln?si=mA3Dq8roSEywlYoXc8Tl-w) featuring songs mentioned throughout the fic and some that fit the story.

_Strawberries_ , he thinks. Plump and red and sweet. Zayn Malik thinks of strawberries as he watches the pretty boy in the bookshop pinch his bottom lip with his slender fingers.

Every single day ends in the same way for Zayn. He gets up at half past midnight, quietly sneaks out the front door, walks the few blocks to the 24-hour bookstore, and steals glances at the pretty boy behind the counter. The bookstore has been his refuge for weeks now. Zayn got lost during one of his late-night walks and found it instead. Since then, he’s been trading his midnight strolls for quiet hours surrounded by books. And one beautiful specimen of a man with green eyes and red lips that make him think of strawberries.

_Or are they pink?_ Zayn argues with himself. Pink and shiny and sinful and so distracting. The boy releases his lip from his grasp only to bite it, and _oh, that’s not fair at all._ Zayn, completely transfixed, forgets his book and lets his mind wander. _I wonder what he’s thinking about. His eyes seem extra green today. Wait, are those flamingos on his shirt?_

Zayn never approaches him. He’s perfectly content sitting on his favorite spot – on the floor, leaning against a shelf of reference books towards the back of the store, hidden from other customers, but with a perfect view of the beautiful boy with pink lips and weird shirts.

It’s his happy place. His only happy place these days. So, this is where he goes when everything gets to be too much for him to handle. This is where he goes to breathe. This is where he goes to just be.

*

_Pink baby powder_ , he thinks. Soft, delicate, sweet. Zayn thinks he’s the kind of person who probably smells like pink baby powder. He’s never been near enough to find out for sure, but he thinks it suits him.

Or maybe something floral, if his massive collection of floral apparel is anything to go by. Old books, maybe? He’s frequently surrounded by books, and he seems to read a new one everyday, so maybe that’s the one?

_Vanilla,_ he mutters to himself. But not the sickly-sweet kind. The smoky, sensual, heady kind that’s also warm and comforting. Just like slipping on a silk robe. _I wonder if he wears silk robes. He seems the type to own one._ Zayn gets lost in visions of creamy skin underneath a white silk robe before he decides on vanilla as his final answer.

He knows he spends an embarrassing amount of time thinking about the boy behind the counter. But he can’t help it. There’s something about him – some inexplicable magnetic force that pulls Zayn into his orbit. And it’s not just his forest green eyes or pink horror of a mouth or those long fingers that continue to haunt him. Zayn knows he’s pretty. Beautiful, even. But he’s more than that.

Zayn likes pretty things. He used to make pretty things with his hands – drawings, collages, paintings, stories, poetry. It’s been ages since he’s created something that he’s proud of and worthy of anyone’s time.

But this boy – this ridiculously beautiful boy – makes Zayn’s hands itch to do something. He hasn’t done anything yet, but he thinks he’ll work up the courage to make something someday. Or, if he’s feeling particularly brave, maybe he’ll even walk the few steps towards the counter and say hello.

As it is, Zayn is perfectly content sitting on his favorite spot – on the floor, leaning against a shelf of reference books towards the back of the store, hidden from other customers, but with a perfect view of the beautiful boy he so desperately wants to get to know.

*

_Raphael’s angel,_ he muses. Sweet, innocent, pensive, aesthetically pleasing. Zayn thinks about Renaissance art and cherubim as he watches the boy read a book under a halo of fluorescent light. It’s not often that Zayn thinks of Renaissance and Baroque art, but he believes that the boy could have inspired one of the pieces from the period.

That was one of the first things that came to his mind when he walked into the bookstore that first night. Zayn saw him behind the counter, on his usual spot, head bent down, reading. The boy looked up from his book when Zayn walked in and flashed him a smile that woke him up from his stupor. He looked like a Renaissance angel with his halo of curls, bright green eyes, and plump lips. It took Zayn a few seconds to recover from the full-blown assault on his senses; the boy had already gone back to reading before Zayn could smile or say hello. So he looked around the shop, picked out a childhood favorite from one of the shelves, settled on the floor near the back of the store, and read his book.

It’s like his heart knew what he was longing for that night and led him to this magical place that he never knew existed. He didn’t even know that there was such a thing as a 24-hour bookstore, but it was exactly what he needed.

Zayn was never the kid who played outside, running around and climbing trees and getting dirty. But he had books. He had board games and notebooks and crayons. It wasn’t much, but he was happy. Zayn read about magic and moving castles and kings and talking animals and witches and monsters and sword fights and time travel. He made up his own stories and drew pictures to go along with them. When you don’t have much growing up, you make do with what you have, and what Zayn had was a horde of friends and a lifetime of adventures. So, he was never the kid who went outside and played with other kids. But his books kept him company.

That first night, he looked up from his book to sneak a glance at the boy behind the counter and found him reading the same thing. To Zayn, it felt like his favorite book was recommending a person. It’s like recognizing a kindred spirit. Maybe they vibrate at the same frequency. Or maybe they knew each other in a past life and were destined to meet a thousand times in a thousand different ways.

Whatever it was, it quelled his disquiet. It made his heart crawl out from its cage of bones and settle.

It felt like coming home.

*

He hears someone refer to the boy behind the counter as Harry just as he was making his way towards his usual spot. Zayn sees him look up from his book and respond with one of those smiles that could blind someone someday with how bright it is.

_Harry_ , Zayn repeats, letting the name swirl around his tongue. It suits him, he thinks. Simple, classic, formidable. An ordinary name for a magical boy, just like his wizard namesake.

The boy is named after wizards and kings and legendary folks – the kind of characters that populate his favorite stories. Zayn’s passion for books and childlike enthusiasm for fantasy and magic stem from his incessant longing to be elsewhere. His heart aches for some inexplicable desire that burns a hole in his chest until all that’s left is a pile of ashes. Zayn fears that this is all there is. So he devours stories that prove otherwise.

Here, in this magical place that seemed to pop out of nowhere, with a boy named after wizards and kings, Zayn feels like he belongs.

So, he stays.

*

Homeward Bound, it’s called. An apt name for a place that has been his refuge for weeks now. Zayn likes that it’s a pun and that it references a song that his dad likes. It makes him feel at ease, somehow. Like he’s supposed to be here. That he’s among his people, and he belongs here.

Here is a house fashioned into a store, with floor-to-ceiling shelves, hardwood floors, and big windows with succulent plants lining the windowsills. Multicolored throw blankets drape over couches that look more comfortable than Zayn’s bed at home. In fact, he’s seen a few people succumb to the evil forces of the couches and doze off for a brief respite from the outside world.

The walls are painted white and adorned with framed photographs of authors, miscellaneous objects, and people Zayn doesn’t recognize. Taped up on one side are literary passages, old newspaper clippings, and letters from customers. Zayn particularly loves the random collection of artwork that range from reproductions of iconic pieces to finger paintings and crayon doodles.

Each table is decorated with a vase of flowers and a box of handmade bookmarks crafted from damaged books and old magazines. There’s a desk with a typewriter for when inspiration strikes, and a children’s corner with toys and art materials. The tiny kitchen area serves coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, as well as an assortment of treats like cakes, cookies, and sandwiches.

There’s also a staircase that leads to another floor, but Zayn has never seen anyone go up there. He thinks it’s probably a storage space for more books. But he hopes it’s where the pretty boy lives. _Who wouldn’t want to live inside a bookstore?_

Meanwhile, a fat orange cat moves languidly across the room and ignores everyone, as a turntable atop a shelf of vinyl records plays familiar songs from decades past.

Midnight ushers in the usual suspects – nocturnal animals that crave stillness and seek solace in books. Those who can’t sleep, those who are buzzing with restless energy, those who are lost, those who wish to escape to another realm to take a break from the dreary realities of this one.

And then there’s Harry. The one bright spot in this bleak world.

One day, Zayn will work up the courage to say hello. Someday, he’ll tell Harry that being around him feels like coming home.

*

The little bells chime, as usual, when Zayn opens the door to the bookshop and steps inside. A Neil Young record plays softly while he makes his way to his favorite spot in the back. The smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen wafts in the air and fills him with ease. He picks out a book at random and plops down on the floor. Zayn absentmindedly leafs through the pages as he watches Harry sweep his hair up into a bun.

_Today’s the day_ , he thinks. Today’s the day he finally talks to Harry.

Zayn practices saying _hello_ repeatedly in his head as he mulls over his escape plans in case things go awry. Then he stands up, puts the book back on its shelf, and slowly approaches the counter.

As he gets closer, he notices the book that Harry’s reading and blurts out, “Fancy a good Dickens?” before he could stop himself. He gets ready to buy a shovel and dig his own grave when he hears Harry say, “I love a good Dickens.”

His voice is deep and raspy. It reverberates through Zayn’s chest, causing the butterflies in his stomach to wake up in a fluttering panic. He speaks slowly, languorously, as if his tongue is caressing every syllable or tasting each word for the first time.

Harry glances up from his book and cackles with delight as he looks at Zayn. “Hi, I’m Harry.”

Zayn digs his fingernails into his palms then says, “Sorry, I meant to say hello earlier, but I noticed your book and couldn’t resist a pun.”

“It was better than hello, trust me.” Harry flashes him a smile that makes his dimples curve in and his green – _Christ, his eyes are a pretty shade of green_ **–** eyes light up. “Hey, you’re one of my regulars.”

Zayn nods then offers his hand. “I’m Zayn, by the way. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Harry shakes his hand, and the contact makes Zayn’s breath hitch. His hands are soft, but his grip is firm as his long fingers wrap elegantly around Zayn’s. Thoughts of those ringed fingers have been swirling around in his head for a while now, and he can’t believe that he’s actually touching them at this very moment.

Zayn never wants to let go.

But of course, he has to, so he does, but the tingling sensation from his touch lingers. He shakes his head slightly and commands his brain to focus. When he looks up, he’s surprised to see Harry staring at him with those green eyes that he’s only seen glimpses of from afar. Zayn doesn’t know what to make of it, so he looks away and clears his throat. His eyes scan the room without looking at anything in particular. “I love this place. Is it yours?”

Harry casts his eyes down and chuckles softly. “It is, thank you.” He closes his book, which Zayn takes as a compliment, and stands up. Harry flicks his gaze up to meet Zayn’s eyes again **–** this time without the intensity from a few minutes before, but with a hint of interest and mild curiosity instead.

He must sense Zayn’s uneasiness because his lips curve into a soft smile. It gradually turns into a cheeky grin as he leans forward on the counter, so his face is only a few inches away from Zayn’s. His haphazardly buttoned shirt gapes open, revealing a smattering of black ink across a broad expanse of creamy skin that Zayn wants to touch. “So, what’s your favorite part about the store?”

_You,_ Zayn thinks. “Definitely the drawing of what looks like a dog humping a cactus. Gives the place a warm and rustic vibe.”

Harry’s eyes widen in surprise before his shoulders start to shake as he lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. Then he leans back with his eyes closed and his head tilted upwards before erupting into a full-belly laugh. Zayn relishes the sound as he stares at him, utterly rapt. _I did that._ He wants to record this moment, to bottle it for posterity. Or keep it for himself and save it for a rainy day.

“My goddaughter drew that,” Harry says around the end of his laughter. “I have no idea what it is, but it’s my favorite.” He places his hand on his chest, as if willing his heart to settle, before turning to Zayn with a smile that’s wide enough for his dimples to appear. “Thanks for that. I needed it.”

“Why? Is something wrong?” Zayn asks before hastily adding, “You don’t have to answer that. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Harry assures him. “It just gets lonely out here sometimes.” He leans forward and speaks quietly as if he’s sharing a secret. “Isn’t it strange how you can be sad even when you’re surrounded by people? It’s one of the loneliest kinds of lonely, I think.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Yeah?”

Zayn nods. A beat of silence passes as they let their words sink in, both of them looking at each other like they’ve just realized something important.

“Hey,” Harry says quietly, almost in a whisper, as if refusing to ruin the moment. “Why do you always sit on the floor in the back?”

Zayn shrugs in lieu of a response.

“I didn’t mean to pry. I’ve just always wondered why.” Harry chuckles at the unintentional rhyme, which makes Zayn bite down hard on his bottom lip for fear of spewing out superlatives or expletives or both. Zayn doesn’t understand how someone he so desperately wants to ravage and ruin be the same person he wants to coddle and protect.

Harry clears his throat, which breaks Zayn’s train of thought. “We have perfectly good couches here,” he says, gesturing towards the couches with a dramatic flourish. “I’ve sat on every one of those and each time felt like sitting on a cloud or getting a warm hug. 10/10 would definitely recommend.” He punctuates his spiel with a thumbs-up sign and a beaming smile that makes his dimples deepen.

_God, he’s infuriating._

“I won’t even kick you out if you fall asleep on one,” Harry adds.

Zayn snorts. “I’m sure you won’t.”

“I won’t, I promise.” Harry widens his eyes and juts out his bottom lip. “Don’t I look trustworthy to you?”

_Smite me, oh mighty smiter._ **“** Maybe.”

“But I’d probably draw on your face when I get bored. Maybe a dog humping a cactus to give it a warm and rustic vibe.”

Zayn lets out a loud cackle, and it startles him so much that he slaps a hand to his mouth to cover it. Harry laughs at that, which causes Zayn to narrow his eyes at him in mock annoyance, until the dam breaks and they’re both collapsing into a fit of giggles. They try to get themselves under control, as soon as they notice a few heads turn in their direction to give them odd looks and chastise them for making so much noise.

Harry places his hand on his chest to try to calm down, while Zayn takes deep breaths and wills his brain to focus. Neil Young sings about a harvest moon as they settle into a companionable silence.

“I don’t know how to act around people,” Zayn admits in a hushed whisper. He sighs as he debates with himself whether to leave it at that or keep going. Zayn steals a glance at Harry, whose soft gaze and warm smile make him decide to explain further. He bites his lip, shakes his head slightly, heaves another sigh, then nods to himself. “I prefer to just stay back while everyone else goes about their business. Stay out of the way, keep quiet, be invisible. It’s easier that way.” Zayn keeps his eyes cast down, embarrassed about his confession and terrified of Harry’s reaction. 

“But you came over here to talk to me and risked being seen,” Harry says after a long stretch of silence between them. “Why?”

Zayn shrugs as he flashes him a sheepish smile. “It was you.”

*

Harry’s not sitting behind the counter like he usually is when Zayn walks into the bookshop. He’s standing with his back against the wall, near the shelf of vinyl records, with his arms folded across his chest that makes the muscles in his arms flex and bulge – _because holy haberdashery, Batman, this tall drink of water has been sent to this planet to torture me_ **–** and send a jolt of searing heat through Zayn’s body. His eyes are closed as he sings along to a Fleetwood Mac song with one boot-clad foot tapping along to the beat.

Zayn looks around to check if everyone else is just as mesmerized as he is with the sight. But no, it’s just him.

He thinks about saying hello, but he doesn’t want to disrupt Harry’s alone time. _That’s what he said,_ Zayn thinks as he chuckles to himself because apparently, he’s still twelve. He briefly considers walking quietly towards his favorite spot in the back, but decides against it because Harry might be expecting a hello and Zayn doesn’t want to be rude.

_Get it together, you idiot_ , he scolds himself. _Just because you had one conversation doesn’t automatically mean that you’re_ _now_ _best friends._

In the end, he resorts to clearing his throat to get Harry’s attention.

Harry opens his eyes and turns to find Zayn. He flashes one of those blindingly bright smiles and Zayn can’t believe that he’s at the receiving end of it. “Hey!” He pushes away from the wall and walks towards Zayn. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You have?” Zayn asks, incredulous.

“That sounded more creepy than friendly, I apologize,” Harry replies. “But I really have been waiting.” He walks behind the counter and rummages inside the desk drawer. “I wanted to give you something. Here.” Harry hands him a piece of paper. “To commemorate the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

Zayn bursts out laughing when he sees an illustration of a dog humping a cactus. “A reproduction of your goddaughter’s masterpiece done in watercolor. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you.” Harry leans forward and drops his voice to a stage whisper. “Full disclosure? That took me about three to four hours. I’m kind of embarrassed.”

Zayn snorts. “Well, I’m still impressed. And flattered. Thank you, Harry.”

Harry looks down and bites his lip. “You’re welcome.” A few seconds pass before he glances back up to smirk at him. “You want to go back to your corner now, don’t you?”

Zayn exhales a laugh. “Yes, please. If you don’t mind.”

“Well, go on then,” Harry says. “I don’t want to see your godforsaken face anymore.”

Zayn laughs as he turns around and heads to his usual spot in the back, feeling lighter and happier than he has ever been in ages.

*

“Fancy a good Dickinson?” Harry asks as he plops down on the floor beside Zayn. His face scrunches up in disgust before he says, “That didn’t sound nearly as good as Dickens.”

Zayn chuckles. “It was awful, but I appreciate the effort.”

“I probably should have done something with ‘My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun,’ but I didn’t want to come on too strong.”

Zayn bursts out laughing. “You’re putting images in my head that my sleep-deprived brain can’t handle yet.”

“Why don’t you sleep then?” Harry asks with a genuinely concerned look on his face. “Get some rest.”

Zayn shrugs instead of answering, as is his wont.

“I told you, you can sleep on one of the couches. I don’t think anybody would mind.”

“It’s better for everyone if I stay out here.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean that you’re going to start reciting lines from ‘I’m Nobody! Who are you?’”

Zayn exhales a laugh. “What, you don’t like that poem?”

Harry shrugs. “I like the bit with the frog.”

“Of course you do.” Zayn closes his book and sets Emily Dickinson aside before he turns to Harry. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

Harry smiles at him. “‘To see the little Tippler leaning against the – Sun!’”

Zayn’s chest quakes as a deluge of emotions courses through his veins. He might be a little bit more than in love with this ridiculously attractive hellspawn, who is the very personification of the sun, but he still doesn’t know what to do with this realization. Zayn starts to say something, but nothing comes out so he shuts his mouth. He scratches at the back of his neck as he flashes Harry a sheepish smile.

Harry doesn’t seem to be waiting for a response. His lips curve into a soft smile, as he pats the space beside him and motions for Zayn to come closer. Zayn scoots over to his right to close the gap between them, his shoulder brushing against Harry’s as he leans against the shelf.

They lapse into a companionable silence.

*

“Zayn! My favorite!” Harry exclaims by way of greeting when Zayn walks into the bookstore.

“You say that to anyone who comes here,” Zayn says as he makes his way to the counter.

“No, I do not.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Whatever you say, Harry.”

Harry stands up then leans forward, his silver necklace making a pleasant clinking sound as it touches the counter. “So, what are you in the mood for today?”

“Apocalypse, please,” Zayn says. “A particularly funny one with satanic nuns, a baby swap, witches, and ducks.”

“Ah,” Harry says before tilting his head to the side, his brows furrowed in contemplation. “Would you say I’m Aziraphale since I own a bookshop?”

“‘Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide,’” Zayn quotes, verbatim, from the book they were just discussing. He smirks at Harry. “Are you any of those?”

Harry exhales a laugh. “Well…”

“Does that mean I’m Crowley then?” Zayn asks.

“You do have dark hair and good cheekbones,” Harry replies with a cheeky smile that makes Zayn blush. “And you wear black all the time.” Harry smirks as he leans even closer to Zayn, their foreheads almost touching. “Crowley can also do weird things with his tongue. What about you?”

Zayn snorts. “Well…”

Harry lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. “You’re making me want to re-read it now.”

“You should.”

“Okay.”

Harry’s unnaturally pink lips curve up into a grin and Zayn feels the corners of his own mouth turn up at the mere sight of it.

“This could be our duck pond.”

Harry’s eyes light up as he nods in agreement. “Clandestine meetings behind the shelves? Oh, absolutely.”

Zayn grins, warmth flooding his cheeks. He looks away to try to hide his blush – _because that’s what I seem to do more often now, I blush like a teenager with a crush_ **–** then clears his throat before he looks up at Harry again. “Well, I better…” he says, gesturing towards the back of the store.

A soft smile falls onto Harry’s pink – _Christ, really pink_ **–** lips. “Okay.”

Zayn gives him a small wave before he turns around to make his way to his usual spot in the back. He picks out his chosen book from one of the shelves then heads to his favorite corner.

As he is settling down on the floor, Zayn hears the a capella intro to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” playing on the record player. He chuckles as he steals a glance at Harry, who is already looking at him with a shit-eating grin. Zayn leans against the shelf, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. He cracks open his book and reads about the end of the world.

*

“Zayn! My favorite!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“How are ya?”

“Good. You?”

“Better now.”

“That’s good.”

“Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

*

“It’s a good song!”

“I know it is! But I can never remember the lyrics. Can you?”

“I know the chorus.”

“Okay, come on, sing it then.”

“‘Baby–’” Zayn starts to sing before he pauses, his brows furrowed, as he thinks of what comes next. “Something, something, something, ‘kiss from a rose.’”

Harry throws his head back and laughs.

“‘Ooh,’” Zayn continues then stops when he can’t figure out what comes after it. He hums the rest of the chorus in defeat.

Harry slaps his hand to his mouth, muffling his laughter as his shoulders shake uncontrollably.

Zayn reaches over to lower Harry’s hand. “You’re right. I give up.” He crosses his arms and waits for Harry to pull himself together.

Harry takes a deep breath before he shakes his head slightly and schools his face. Zayn sees that his cheeks are tinged with pink from exertion **–** _a pretty shade of pink, Christ –_ but the corner of his mouth twitches, as if trying to keep from smiling and spectacularly failing. “I like it when he goes, ‘My power, my pleasure, my pain!’ It’s so satisfying to sing that part.”

“Yeah, but what the fuck is he saying though?” Zayn asks, exasperated. “Can you search for the lyrics? I need to know!”

Harry dissolves into laughter.

*

“Okay. Scariest fictional villain?” Harry asks.

“Ross Geller,” Zayn replies automatically. “Or Gaston.”

“Huh. Here I thought you’d pick someone from one of your comic books.” Harry taps his chin with his index finger as he mulls over his answer. “When I was a kid, it was Miss Trunchbull. Or Jadis the White Witch because she killed Christmas! Why would anybody want to do that?” Harry sighs dramatically, which he tends to do whenever the opportunity arises.

“Think about it, though.” Zayn leans forward, face serious and hands gesticulating wildly as he continues. “Monsters and comic book villains are evil and terrifying, but they’re fantastical. You know that they’re products of the inner workings of somebody’s brain. I mean, sure, some of them were probably inspired by real-life people. But there are actual living, breathing embodiments of Ross and Gaston walking among us on this planet. What’s more terrifying than that?”

“Annie Wilkes from _Misery_?”

“Oh yeah, fuck.”

“Stephen King turned ‘I’m your number one fan’ into one of the creepiest lines in literary history.” Harry shudders to punctuate his statement. “Still gives me chills when I think about it, to be honest.”

“What about when she cut off his thumb then used it as a candle on a birthday cake?” Zayn scrunches up his face. “Effectively put me off birthday celebrations, by the way. It drove my mother crazy every year.”

“I couldn’t listen to ‘Moonlight Sonata’ without thinking of Annie breaking Paul’s feet in the film.”

“‘Trust me. It’s for the best.’”

Harry cringes at the thought. “Fangirling at its worst and most terrifying.”

Zayn nods in agreement. “It was a good book, though. Annie was supposedly a metaphor for Stephen King’s addiction.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that.”

They lapse into silence, but Zayn can see Harry watching him out of the corner of his eye. It would be creepy if it was anyone else but somehow, he’s gotten accustomed to Harry’s wide-eyed stares and intense gazes.

“Do you know what else is terrifying?” Harry asks, finally breaking the silence.

“What?”

Harry arranges his face into a serious expression. “Ross’s insanely white teeth under a blacklight.”

Zayn bursts out laughing.

“Remember Phoebe’s reaction when he saw them? That’s how I would have reacted.”

Zayn curves in on himself as he continues to laugh, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

“They made me think of those glow-in-the-dark _Are You Afraid of the Dark?_ books I had when I was younger!”

“That’s not a villain, though,” Zayn says around the end of his laughter.

“Well, it was a villainous sight,” Harry retorts with a pout, making Zayn collapse into laughter.

*

“She thinks a cat stole her soul?”

“Yes.”

“Did a cat steal her soul?”

“Why would I tell you?”

“Zayn.”

“Harry.”

“Fine.”

*

“What page are you on now?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Harry.”

“Zayn.”

“Come on.”

“Raleigh’s about to tell Stephanie that she has no soul. Now, shut up and wait for me to finish.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Ugh, leave me alone.”

“I thought you’d approve.”

“Do you want me to finish reading this?”

“Yes.”

“Then keep quiet. I promise we’ll talk about it after I’m done.”

“Fine.”

*

“I loved it.”

“I knew you would.”

“Now I want another cat.”

“That’s so not the point of the story.”

“Jeff Tweedy has a song called ‘Laminated Cat.’”

“Okay?”

“You should listen to it.”

“Were any cats laminated in the song?”

“No! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“‘Oh, don’t open that door.’”

“A  _Friends_ reference, I’m impressed.”

“I have made it my mission to always try to impress you.”

“Then you don’t need to do much.”

“Hmm?”

“Your whole existence is pretty impressive already.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“It’s really sad. But beautiful.”

“Are we still talking about my pathetic existence?”

“No, the song, you nincompoop.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say nincompoop before.”

“I can loan you the album if you want.”

“Or you can just play it here so we can listen to it together.”

“Yes, let’s do that. That’s a much better idea than mine.”

*

And so it goes.

Zayn comes into the bookshop, as always, and heads to his usual corner in the back. Harry joins him a few hours later to talk, or argue, or sit together in silence.

“You know, I had a thing for pirates because of Westley,” Harry says, apropos of nothing, in that languid manner that could lull Zayn to sleep at this hour if he still could. “Well, because of Cary Elwes.”

“I figured.”

“What did you think of the ending?”

“Of the book or the film?”

“Whichever.”

“I prefer the way the book ended,” Zayn tells him. “It’s more realistic. Yes, they’re together, and they love each other, but life doesn’t always end with a happily-ever-after, you know?”

Harry nods thoughtfully. “I guess. I’d like to think that they still lived happily ever after, though. But I’m a hopeless romantic, so…”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Zayn assures him.

“I know.” Harry chews on his lip before placing a book on Zayn’s lap. “So. Bukowski? You’ll read it?”

Zayn flips through Harry’s own copy of _Love Is a Dog from Hell_ and sees some notes written in pencil on the margins. _Be still, my heart_. “I did promise you that I will.”

“It’s just that people usually give me shit for recommending it.”

“I won’t do that. I trust you.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, his lips curving into a smile. “So, you’ll read it? For me?”

“I said I would.”

“And you’ll tell me when you’re done so we can discuss it?”

“I will.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“You can sit a little closer. I don’t bite, I promise.”

“As you wish.”

Zayn stills when he hears Harry’s breath hitch. They both know what it means. Anyone who has ever read or seen _The Princess Bride_ knows what it means. That such a simple phrase carries so much weight and shouldn’t be thrown around carelessly.

His chest quakes as he steals a glance at Harry, who is staring at him with eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Zayn scoots over to his right until he feels his shoulder graze Harry’s. He turns to look at him and smiles.

Harry, wonderfully, smiles back.

*

“Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you ever going to ask me out?”

“I **–”**

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But you definitely should if you do.”

“Uh, I, yes.”

“Yes?”

“I do.”

“Now hold on, mister. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You still haven’t asked me out.”

“Oh, sorry **–”**

Harry gently places his index finger to Zayn’s lips to shut him up. “Ssh, wait.”

“What?” Zayn asks in a near whisper.

“I’m waiting for the next song to start.”

“Why?”

Harry rolls his eyes as if it’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard. “To set the mood, obviously. If movies work better with music, then so does life.”

“Okay, Rob Gordon.” Zayn tries his hardest to mask the fondness he feels for this ridiculous man-child, but no, he is unequivocally endeared and absolutely fucked.

Harry smirks. “Funny you should mention that because…” he trails off as the opening notes to the next song begin to play.

_Shattered dreams, worthless years. Here am I encased inside a hollow shell._

“Good song.”

“The most excellent song.”

“So, can I ask you out now?” Zayn asks.

Harry sighs in mock annoyance. “Not yet, Casanova. Wait for the hook.”

Zayn laughs quietly to himself as he listens to the song and waits for Harry’s signal.

_I believe when I fall in love with you it will be forever._

“Okay, go.”

_Finally._

Zayn takes Harry’s hand in his then looks him in the eye. “Harry?”

“Zayn?”

“‘Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherised upon a table.’”

Harry beams at him, his eyes dancing and those damn dimples on full display. “Yes, please.”

*

Zayn agonizes over what to do for their first date. He’s never really been out on a proper date before. Getting ice cream with a girl when he was fourteen and not saying more than three words to her the entire time probably doesn’t count. He rarely goes out of the house either, so he wouldn’t know where to take Harry for a date. Besides, the only place he deems worthy is the bookstore and Harry practically lives there, so he’s out of options.

But as with everything else, Harry makes it easier for him.

Zayn walks into the bookshop to find Harry sitting on top of his desk, boot-clad feet swaying as he sings along to The Cars. When he catches Zayn’s eye, he raises his hand and crooks his index finger to beckon him to come closer.

“Hey, you,” Zayn says, stopping just a few inches from where Harry’s sitting.

“‘I don’t mind you coming here and wasting all my time,’” Harry sings while meeting Zayn’s steady gaze. “‘Cause when you’re standing oh so near, I kinda lose my mind.’”

Zayn wants to kiss him. Kiss him until their mouths catch on fire and they forget to breathe. Tell him with a kiss that he makes his chest feel lighter, that he makes his world go quiet, that he makes him happy even for the briefest of moments. But how can he say all of that with just a kiss? Does Harry even want to kiss him?

“‘I guess you’re just what I needed,’” Harry continues to sing while staring at Zayn in that intense way that always causes a faint flush to spread across Zayn’s face and down his neck. Harry takes his hand and tugs him closer, so that Zayn is standing between his legs.

“You needed someone to feed or bleed?” Zayn asks, referencing the chorus, as a lame attempt to divert Harry’s attention.

Harry shrugs without taking his eyes away from him. He must sense Zayn’s disquiet because his gaze softens as he flashes him a gentle smile, a dimple teasing his cheek.

Maybe he should kiss him now. Or maybe not yet. This – whatever this is – is good. It’s good. They’re good. Kissing him right here, right now, might just ruin that. And Zayn really, really, _really_ doesn’t want to ruin whatever this is. No matter how much he wants to kiss him.

So, he’ll wait. He’s good at that. He’ll wait for the right moment. And it will be perfect. He’s sure of it. Or at least he hopes it will be.

“Do you already have plans for our first date?” Harry asks with a cheeky smile.

Zayn bites his lip and scratches the back of his neck while he racks his brain for a plan.

“Because it’s okay if you don’t,” Harry says, which makes Zayn peer at him questioningly. “I was actually thinking of doing it here.”

“Not in front of the books!” Zayn exclaims in mock outrage.

Harry slaps his stomach playfully as he huffs out a laugh. “No, I was thinking of having the date here. If you want.”

“I’d be up for anything you want.” Zayn rolls his eyes at Harry, who’s smirking and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Are you sure you want to have it here? I mean, we’re here all the time.”

Harry shrugs as he looks at their clasped hands. “I figured that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to go to an entirely new place and be surrounded by too many people. And you never get enough sleep anyway, so I was thinking that we can just have the date here around this time. You know, when you’re usually here and awake.” He looks away and chuckles to himself, as if he’s embarrassed by what he just said. “I just want you to be comfortable, that’s all.” Harry shrugs his shoulders again as he gently rubs his thumb across the back of Zayn’s hand. “And you like it here. I like you here.”

Zayn’s breath hitches as he tries to process what Harry just told him. He’s so used to putting other people’s happiness before his own that it still surprises him when someone thinks of him first. Zayn knows that he would walk into a crowded restaurant or watch a band play live in a cramped room if Harry asked him to, but he would really rather not do any of those. Especially not on a first date, where every tiny mistake could ruin his chances of asking Harry out for a second one.

He glances at Harry, who is looking down on the floor and squirming on his desk, as if he’s terrified that he’s offended Zayn somehow with his kindness and genuine concern for his well-being. Zayn waits for Harry to look up at him before he gives in to the impulse to kiss him. He bends down to press a soft kiss to Harry’s pink horror of a mouth that has been haunting him for weeks. It was just a quick brush of their lips – over too soon, but the sensation lingers long after they reluctantly pull away from each other.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn mumbles in an almost whisper, aware of what just transpired and unprepared for what the repercussions might be.

Harry tugs on his hand to get him to look at him. “Don’t be. If you hadn’t, I would have done the same thing.” His lips curve up into a sheepish smile. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a while now.”

Zayn feels his heart thump wildly against his rib cage, as if it’s trying to get out to give Harry a kiss, too. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry smiles at him before he leans forward to nestle his head gently underneath Zayn’s jaw. He presses his free hand to Zayn’s chest to feel his heartbeat. “Are you nervous?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Zayn admits.

They stay like that for a few minutes before Harry leans back to look at him properly. “Do you drink wine?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you usually drink?”

“Coffee. Or tea.”

“What do you drink that isn’t coffee or tea?”

“Beer?”

“I don’t really like beer.”

“Water’s fine.”

“Hot chocolate it is then.”

Zayn lets out a breath of a laugh into the air between them. “Perfect.”

“So, tomorrow?” Harry asks.

“I’ll be here,” Zayn assures him.

“I might read you some Anais Nin,” Harry says, eyebrows waggling as he grins cheekily at him.

Zayn snorts. “It’s not a date until someone brings out the literary smut.”

“Do you read erotic literature?”

“I read.”

“So,  _Delta of Venus_ then."

“I’d be severely disappointed if it wasn’t.”

Harry’s grin disappears as he fixes his gaze on Zayn. “‘He had not touched me. He did not need to. His presence had affected me in such a way that I felt as if he had caressed me for a long time.’”

Zayn feels his cheeks redden as a jolt of searing heat courses through his veins. Harry’s voice is dangerously low and husky, causing his poor heart to jump up and ricochet off the walls of his rib cage. He clears his throat before he leans down so his face is a breath away from Harry’s. “‘Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.’”

He hears, even over the music and the murmur of the midnight crowd, a sharp intake of breath from Harry. Zayn smirks as he stands back up, still holding Harry’s hand and meeting his steady gaze.

“You’re something else,” Harry whispers.

Zayn chuckles softly. “I could say the same about you.”

Harry leans forward again to rest his head against Zayn’s chest. Zayn’s free hand automatically reaches up to play with Harry’s curls. He hears Harry sigh contentedly as he continues to pet his hair.

“Do you even have customers?” Zayn asks after a few blissful moments of silence with Harry still gently nuzzling him. “It seems like everyone’s just hanging out here and reading for free. I mean, that’s definitely what I’ve been doing here most of the time. Sorry.”

Harry shrugs as he leans back to look up at him again. “I don’t mind. The store is mostly open at these hours for you nighthawks anyway. Better to have a safe space to stay in than to have you lot gallivanting around at the crack of dawn.”

Zayn can’t help it. He wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him right now. So, he does. This time, it lasts a few seconds longer than the first.

“What did I do?” Harry asks, his eyes still closed and his lips curved up into a soft smile.

“Nothing,” Zayn replies. “You’re just so…you.”

“I’ve gotten two kisses now and we haven’t even had our first date yet,” Harry says, utterly delighted.

Zayn exhales a laugh. “I’m generous like that.”

“I am, too, you know.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

“So, tomorrow?” Harry asks him again.

“I’ll be here,” Zayn says once more.

*

The bells chime, as usual, when Zayn walks into the bookstore. He sees Harry look up from his book and flash him a beaming smile that’s enough to light up the whole place. Zayn can’t help the way his lips curve up into a silly grin that’s wide enough to hurt as he makes his way towards Harry.

As it is an important day, Zayn traded his usual uniform of hoodies and ripped jeans for something more appropriate for date night. He wore a plain white shirt under a black leather jacket, his nicest pair of black jeans, and his favorite black leather boots. It’s been a while since he’s made the effort to look nice for someone. But this night is important and so is Harry. The least he could do is tame his hair, which has gotten longer without him even noticing. Usually it’s in a ponytail or swept back by a headband, but this time he’s settled for a slicked-back style with an annoying lock of hair hanging down his forehead.

Zayn sidles up to Harry, who is perched on the corner of his desk. “Hello,” he says, suddenly too shy in front of Harry, who looks damn good in his purple silk shirt with black floral print and the tightest jeans imaginable. His hair is swept to one side and cascaded in soft waves around his shoulders.

“Hi.” Harry pulls at his hips until Zayn is standing between his legs. He whistles after he gives Zayn a quick once-over. “You look good.”

Zayn feels his cheeks redden. “So do you.” He fiddles with the silver cross pendant dangling in the center of Harry’s chest. “I like how you’re always too lazy to button up your shirts properly.”

“There’s just too many of them, Zayn,” Harry says, heaving a dramatic sigh. “I can’t be bothered to do up all of the buttons.”

Zayn lightly runs his finger down the buttons of Harry’s shirt. “That’s a perfectly valid excuse to go around with your shirt practically open for everyone to see what’s underneath.”

“It’s my duty to give the people what they want.”

“That’s true.”

Harry smirks. “So, ready for our date?”

“Oh, before I forget…” Zayn trails off as he rummages around his bag. He takes out a book and a single red rose, much to Harry’s delighted surprise, then drops his bag carefully on the floor.

“Is that _Pride and Prejudice?”_ Harry asks.

“It is.” Zayn kisses him on the cheek before offering both items to Harry.

“I feel like this is a _You’ve Got Mail_ reference. Is it?”

“Figured it was appropriate since we did meet in a shop around the corner.”

Harry places a hand to his chest and sighs dramatically. “So this is what it feels like to swoon.”

Zayn snorts. “Shut up.”

Harry sets aside the book and flower on his desk then grabs the lapels of Zayn’s jacket to tug him closer. “Thank you,” he says before leaning forward to kiss him. Harry pulls away for an instant before leaning in to kiss him again. He lightly runs the tip of his tongue around the outline of Zayn’s lips before slipping it into his mouth and softly moaning into the kiss. Zayn reaches up with one hand to cup the back of his neck, brushing his thumb along Harry’s cheek.

“That was…” Harry trails off after they pull apart. He presses their foreheads together as he tries to catch his breath.

“Yeah,” Zayn mutters, his hand still cupping the back of Harry’s neck.

“We should do that again.” Harry leans back to look at Zayn. “And again. And **–”**

“Again, yes, I got it the first time, babe.” Zayn runs his thumb lightly over Harry’s lips.

“This is shaping up to be a pretty good date, don’t you think?”

“Don’t jinx it. It’s still too early.”

Harry presses a soft kiss to his mouth. “I think you better head over to our corner now so we can properly start our date night.”

“Oh, it’s our corner now, huh?” Zayn teases.

Like a true mature adult, Harry sticks out his tongue at him in lieu of a response.

Zayn chuckles before leaning forward to kiss Harry on the forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait,” Harry says, grabbing onto the sleeve of Zayn’s jacket.

“What?” Zayn asks.

“One more,” Harry replies, tugging Zayn closer to him.

The corners of Zayn’s eyes crinkle as he lowers his mouth to Harry’s to kiss him again. Zayn feels Harry’s smile against his lips before he pulls back to kiss him softly on the nose.

“Okay, I’m good,” Harry says, eyes still closed and lips turned up into a soft smile. “You can go now.”

Zayn cups Harry’s face and leans down to look him in the eye. “As you wish.” He stands back up, grabs his bag from the floor, and makes his way to his usual spot in the back. He turns around and finds Harry still perched on his desk, his eyes following Zayn’s every move. Harry grins sheepishly at him before he gives him a small wave. Zayn turns back around and heads over to his favorite corner in the bookshop.

_Their corner._

*

The first thing Zayn notices is the orange cat.

Harry’s cat is asleep, lounging peacefully on a red blanket and exuding the kind of refined elegance that only cats are known to possess.

The second thing he sees is the picnic basket placed in the middle of the blanket. It’s one of those classic country picnic baskets with two swing handles, a wooden split-lid design, and a red-and-white gingham lining that extends down the sides with both ends tied together in a pretty bow detail. Zayn wants to take a quick peek inside the basket, but decides to wait for Harry instead. He moves it to the side so he can sit next to the sleeping cat. Zayn takes out a random book from the shelf behind him and reads it while he gently pets the orange ball of fluff next to him.

“The  _Joy of Cooking_ , huh?” Zayn hears Harry before he sees him. “Searching for ideas for a second date?”

Zayn chuckles as Harry settles down beside him. “My mom had a tattered copy of this book when I was a kid. I devoured it like I devoured everything she cooked.”

“Can you cook?” Harry asks.

Zayn nods. “My mom taught me everything she knows. Well, not everything. She still won’t tell me what her secret sauce is for this one dish that my sisters and I love. Mom says she wants me to figure it out on my own.” Zayn smiles as he remembers helping his mother in the kitchen. He always gets misty-eyed when he talks about his family and thinks about his childhood.

Harry gently takes Zayn’s hand and plays with the rings on his fingers. “So, you and your mom are close?” Zayn nods in response. “What about your dad? You said you had sisters, right?”

“Three sisters – one older, two younger. And yes, all of us are really close. What about you and your family?”

“We are, too. I talk to my mom everyday.” Harry takes the picnic basket and places it in front of him. “So, ready to start date night?”

“Yes, let’s do it.”

“Not on the first date!”

“Ugh, just open the damn basket, Harry.”

Harry laughs with his eyes shut and his hand to his chest as if Zayn just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Eventually he does as he’s told, taking out the contents one by one – a thermos, two mugs, a tin can, apples, bananas, oranges, a couple of books, a flameless candle – and placing them carefully on the blanket. He reaches for the tin can, opens the lid, and offers it to Zayn.

The delicious scent of a sweet mélange of chocolate, butter, and vanilla pervades the air. “Chocolate chip cookies?” Zayn asks as he takes a cookie and bites on it cheerfully. “Thanks!”

“I baked them this afternoon.” Harry reaches over to wipe a smear of chocolate on the corner of Zayn’s mouth with the pad of his thumb. “Figured it was appropriate for a bookstore date.”

“This is really good,” Zayn says, closing his eyes as he savors the taste of the cookie. When he opens his eyes, he sees Harry staring at him. “What?”

Harry chuckles to himself. “Nothing.” He opens the thermos and pours hot chocolate on two mugs – one with a picture of a cat and the other with a tiger. “That’s Scout, by the way.” Harry gestures to the cat beside Zayn.

Zayn takes the tiger mug. “As in Finch?”

“Yep.” Harry raises his mug towards Zayn. “To a successful first date.”

“Hear, hear,” Zayn says as he raises his mug for a toast. He takes a sip before closing his eyes to relish the warmth that spreads from his throat down to his toes. “That’s good. Thanks, babe.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry takes a cookie and dips it into his hot chocolate.

Zayn munches on another cookie as he looks through the books that Harry packed. “ _Delta of Venus_ , as promised. And _The Splinter Factory_?”

Harry nods. “It has one of my favorite poems. Wanna see?”

“Yes, please.” Zayn hands him the book before taking another sip from his mug.

“It’s called “The Archipelago of Kisses.”

“Read it to me.”

Harry clears his throat as he leafs through the pages to find his favorite poem. “ _We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don’t grow on trees like in the old days. So where does one find love?”_ Harry pauses for dramatic effect, which makes Zayn giggle. “ _When you’re sixteen it’s easy – like being unleashed with a credit card in a department of kisses. There’s the first kiss.”_ He smirks at Zayn. “ _The sloppy kiss. The peck.”_ Harry leans in to give Zayn a quick peck on the lips. “ _The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The_ we shouldn’t be doing this _kiss. The_ but your lips taste so good _kiss.”_ He leans in for another kiss from Zayn. “ _The_ bury me in an avalanche of tingles _kiss.”_ Another kiss, but it lasts longer this time.

“ _The_ I wish you’d quit smoking kiss.” A kiss here. “ _The_ I accept your apology, but you make me really mad sometimes _kiss.”_ Another kiss there. “ _The_ I know your tongue like the back of my hand _kiss.”_ A longer kiss after that one.

“ _As you get older, kisses become scarce. You’ll be driving home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road, with its purple thumb out. Now if you were younger, you’d pull over, slide open the mouth’s ruby door just to see how it fits. Oh where does one find love?”_

Harry pauses to stare at Zayn, his lips curved up into a soft smile. “ _If you rub two glances together, you get a smile; rub two smiles, you get a spark; rub two sparks together and you have a kiss. Now what?”_

Zayn stares at Harry the whole time as he listens to his syrupy drawl. This is an English major’s wet dream come true. A pretty boy with a pretty mouth reciting pretty lines from a pretty poem? Zayn’s sure he’s a few minutes away from spontaneous combustion. _That’s what he said,_ he says in his head because clearly he’s still twelve years old.

“ _Don’t invite the kiss to your house and answer the door in your underwear. It’ll get suspicious and stare at your toes,”_ Harry continues reading while occasionally sneaking glances at Zayn. “ _Don’t water the kiss with whiskey. It’ll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters, but in the morning it’ll be ashamed and sneak out of your body without saying goodbye, and you’ll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left on the inside of your mouth.”_

Zayn reaches for Harry’s hand and interlaces their fingers. He rubs comforting circles against the back of Harry’s hand as he continues to read.

“ _You must nurture the kiss. Dim the lights, notice how it illuminates the room. Clutch it to your chest, wonder if the sand inside every hourglass comes from a special beach. Place it on the tongue’s pillow, then look up the first recorded French kiss in history: beneath a Babylonian olive tree in 1300 B.C.”_

Harry lifts their clasped hands to kiss the back of Zayn’s. “ _But one kiss levitates above all the others. The intersection of function and desire. The_ I do _kiss. The_ I’ll love you through a brick wall _kiss. Even when I’m dead, I’ll swim through the earth like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones_.”

Zayn’s breath hitches as he meets Harry’s steady gaze. They stare at each other for eight seconds, five minutes, an hour – Zayn doesn’t know. But the moment lingers, and he can feel the surge of electricity that crackles between them. Zayn suddenly wants to thank every person who’s ever wronged him, every bad decision he’s ever made, every path he took that turned out to be a mistake. Because everything led him to this moment. This beautiful dream of a moment.

“Good, yeah?” Harry finally breaks the silence, his voice quieter and raspier.

Zayn merely nods, his eyes tracking Harry’s every movement. He watches as Harry closes the book and sets it aside to scoot a little closer to him. Zayn reaches over to tuck a curl behind Harry’s ear, his hand lingering on the side of his neck and his thumb softly brushing against Harry’s cheek. He sees Harry’s eyes travel from his lips to his eyes then back again. “Come here,” he says, urging Harry to move even closer. Harry, his eyes wide and bottom lip trapped between his teeth, does so.

The kiss starts softly, slowly, gently. As if they have all the time in the world in this tiny corner of the universe that’s all theirs. Zayn runs his fingers through Harry’s hair then grabs a good handful to pull him even closer, which elicits a guttural moan from Harry. They pull back to stop themselves, resting their foreheads together as they catch their breaths.

“You want a banana?” Harry asks after a minute.

Zayn huffs out a laugh. “Maybe later.” He kisses Harry on the cheek before he leans against the shelf. “If that’s what happens after you read a poem about kisses, then I’m terrified of what will happen when you actually read some Anais Nin.”

Harry’s shoulders shake as he laughs, leaning forward to muffle his laughter against Zayn’s chest. Zayn wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, holding him tight until his breathing evens out and relishing the feeling of his solidity and warmth.

“Hey,” Zayn says quietly, almost as if he’s terrified of ruining the moment.

Harry looks up at him with his big green eyes and a dimple teasing his cheek. “Hey.”

“Where do the stairs lead?” Zayn asks, eyeing the staircase that’s always intrigued him.

“Maybe I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Harry replies with a cheeky smile. “Or better yet, maybe I’ll show you.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s stay here for now.”

So they do. They stay in their corner, wrapped up in each other and completely in their own little world.

But Harry never gets to show him where the stairs lead. Because Zayn never comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A list of books and poems referenced in this chapter:
> 
> _The Old Curiosity Shop_ by Charles Dickens (I imagine that this is what Harry was reading when Zayn asked, "Fancy a good Dickens?")
> 
> "My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun" by Emily Dickinson
> 
> "I’m Nobody! Who are you?" by Emily Dickinson
> 
> "I taste a liquor never brewed" by Emily Dickinson (“To see the little Tippler leaning against the – Sun!”)
> 
> _Good Omens_ by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett ("Apocalypse, please.")
> 
> _Misery_ by Stephen King
> 
> _Lost at Sea_ by Bryan Lee O’Malley ("She thinks a cat stole her soul?")
> 
> _The Princess Bride_ by William Goldman
> 
> _High Fidelity_ by Nick Hornby ("Okay, Rob Gordon.")
> 
> "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot ("Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherised upon a table.")
> 
> _Delta of Venus_ by Anais Nin
> 
> _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen
> 
> _Joy of Cooking_ by Irma S. Rombauer
> 
> _To Kill a Mockingbird_ by Harper Lee ("That’s Scout, by the way." "As in Finch?")
> 
> "The Archipelago of Kisses" from _The Splinter Factory_ by Jeffrey McDaniel


	2. It's Hard to Get Around the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "It's Hard to Get Around the Wind" by Alex Turner.

Zayn opens his eyes as sunlight streams through his bedroom window.

 _48 hours_ , he thinks. He’s been awake for 48 hours now. Usually he manages to doze off for an hour or two, but he’s been awake for two days straight this time. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. In fact, his record was 72 hours. He probably should be dead by now. Zayn constantly wonders why he isn’t yet.

He hears footsteps outside his door and down the stairs. Zayn’s parents always rise with the sun. They have to if they want to maintain a semblance of order in their tiny house that wasn’t built for six people and a dog.

Next, he’ll hear pots and pans clanging while his dad rifles through his record collection. He hears the intro to “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” in his head before he hears it wafting through the speakers. His dad always plays Michael Jackson’s _Thriller_ in the morning. Always.

Soon, he’ll hear more footsteps thudding down the stairs. The delicious scent of his mom’s cooking will permeate the air, and he’ll be tempted to get up and join his family for breakfast. Usually he does, because he genuinely loves spending time with his family. But there are times when it’s physically impossible for him to get up from his bed and leave his room.

His mom used to knock on his door to tell him that breakfast is ready. Soon after, she passed the unfortunate task onto one of his sisters – usually Safaa because she’s the youngest – to annoy him into getting up and joining them for breakfast. But years later, they’ve stopped calling for him. They know that he works late and doesn’t sleep until dawn, so they don’t bother him in the mornings anymore. Zayn doesn’t know how he feels about it.

Today, he thinks he’ll join them for breakfast. But first, he needs to get up from this damn bed.

 _Five minutes_ , he thinks.

Getting out of bed is always an ordeal. Always. Sometimes, it’s not even about wanting to sleep more. He can’t explain it, but there are days when he just can’t move – like he’s glued to the bed or his body has simply stopped functioning. For most of his life, Zayn thought he was just lazy as fuck. And his family probably still thinks so, too. It took him a while to realize that there might be something wrong with him. But he doesn’t want to cause any alarm, so he never says anything. He figures he’ll be okay eventually, so there’s no reason to make his parents worry.

Today seems okay, though. Zayn thinks he feels fine. He gets up slowly, stretches his arms over his head, puts on a shirt he hopes is clean, then heads to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth.

He hears one of his sisters singing along to “Thriller” as he descends the stairs. Rhino sees him first and runs towards him, his tail wagging excitedly. Zayn scratches behind Rhino’s ear as he looks around the house. He sees Safaa and Waliyha on their usual seats in the dining room, talking excitedly about something as Doniya sets the table. His mom is by the stove, as usual, putting the finishing touches to whatever dish she’s made for breakfast. And then there’s his dad **–** always looking for something to do, something to fix. “There’s always something to do, Zayn. Always,” his dad says every time Zayn tells him to get some rest. This time, his sole focus is on the toaster.

Doniya smirks at him as he enters the dining room. “Morning, loser.”

Zayn sticks his tongue out at her in response. Safaa and Waliyha get up to give him a hug, then he walks over to the kitchen to kiss his mom on the cheek.

“Good morning, sonshine,” she says, her eyes lighting up as soon as she sees him. She reaches out to cup his cheek. “You okay?”

_No, mom, I’m not. I haven’t been sleeping well. And I haven’t been eating well either. I’m tired all the time even though I don’t really do anything. I look at all of you and I feel guilty for feeling sad and exhausted and angry. But you’re not supposed to know any of that because I never want you to worry. You should never worry about me._

Zayn smiles instead of giving her a proper reply. He feels relatively fine this morning, but he knows he won’t be for long.

His mom gently runs her hand through his hair. “Sit down, love. Breakfast is ready.”

He sees his dad smile at him before he turns to walk over to his usual spot on the dining table. Soon, breakfast is served and Zayn looks around to see all six of them gathered together, with Rhino sitting comfortably by his feet. Zayn sees his mom’s beaming smile aimed at him, and he feels a twinge of guilt or sadness or both. He chooses to ignore it for now. It’s a good day, and they’re all sitting together, and everyone’s in a good mood.

All’s right with the world. At least for now.

*

Zayn likes doing the dishes. He has his own system – one that he has perfected through years of experience **–** and it works for him. His sisters always tease him for it. _Nobody likes doing the dishes, Zayn. You’re mad._ But he does. And he probably is.

He doesn’t tell them that seeing a dirty pile of dishes on the sink makes his skin crawl. That he’ll drop whatever it is he’s doing just to make sure that the sink is spotless. And that he’ll redo everything if he suspects that the dishes weren’t done properly.

Zayn hasn’t been able to articulate it, but doing the dishes calms him down somehow. Maybe it’s the routine or the system he’s created. Or the feeling of accomplishment after finishing the task. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s contributing something to the house and giving his mom one less thing to worry about. Whatever it is, it sets his mind at ease.

So, that’s what he does after breakfast. He offers to do the dishes, much to the delight of his sisters. His mom gently pats him on the cheek to thank him, while his dad puts on a Donny Hathaway record.

 _It’s a good day_ , he thinks. _Please let it stay that way. At least for today._

*

Safaa wants to go out to get some ice cream, and she wants Zayn to go with her.

Zayn rarely leaves the house, but he can never say no to his little sister. So, he goes with her. He figures that it’s better to indulge her now while she still thinks he’s cool. Soon, she’ll be embarrassed to be seen with her big brother in public and it’ll break his heart. So he relishes every moment she chooses to spend time with him.

For now, he tries to focus solely on the story she excitedly tells him instead of the racing thoughts in his head and the furious pounding in his chest. He digs his nails into his palms as he watches his sister mull over her flavor choices, even though he knows they’ll go home with cookie dough and mint chocolate chip like always.

They pass by the bookshop around the corner, and Zayn sees him through the window. It’s only for a fraction of a moment because Safaa orders him to walk faster. She’s in a rush because she wants to go home and eat their ice cream and watch _The Princess Bride_ for the nth time. Still, it’s enough to make him unclench his fist and heave a sigh of relief. Zayn feels lighter somehow. He can even feel the corners of his mouth curving up.

“What are you smiling about?” Safaa asks.

“Nothing,” he replies, unable to stop himself from smiling.

“Uh-huh.” She looks over her shoulder and spots the bookshop. “Did you see him then?”

“Who?”

“The boy you have a crush on in the bookstore.”

“What boy?”

“Oh, please.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Safaa rolls her eyes at him then tugs at his hand. “Hurry up, then. I don’t want the ice cream to melt.”

Zayn bites his lip to keep from smiling as he lets his sister drag him home. _It’s a good day_ , he thinks. Days when he sees the boy in the bookshop usually are.

*

It’s a lazy day. The kind that’s perfect for a long nap if Zayn could still manage to fall asleep. They’re watching _The Princess Bride_ in the living room, as per Safaa’s request, since none of them have any plans to go out or do something important.

Zayn is on the floor, with Rhino by his side and his back against the middle of the couch, where Doniya’s sitting and braiding his hair. His mom is on one end, with Safaa on one arm chair and Waliyha on the other. Even his dad, who can never sit still, is on the other end of the couch, watching the movie and stealing ice cream from Waliyha’s bowl.

It’s a pretty picture.

Zayn has always considered himself lucky that he was brought into this world with a family that genuinely cares for one another and enjoys spending time together. They don’t have much, but they have each other. It’s a cheesy thing to say, but it’s also the truest of truths.

He feels the familiar stirring of emotions rising from his chest to his throat, so he excuses himself to go to the bathroom. The same bathroom that has been witness to a multitude of his random emotional outbursts. He cries into his fist – awful, racking sobs that make his bones ache. But Zayn never makes a sound. He’s mastered crying in silence and hiding his emotions so as not to let anyone worry. The last thing he wants is for anyone to fuss over him when there are far more important things to worry about.

_Fuck. What am I doing? It’s a good day, and we’re all together, but here I am crying my eyes out in the bathroom. Again! What the fuck is wrong with me? Shit, where did I leave my bowl? Did I finish the ice cream? It’s probably all melted now. Because I’m stupid and nothing seems to go my way. My chest actually hurts. Is this just from crying too much? I hope I don’t have a heart condition. That won’t help anyone at all. It’ll just make everything worse. Oh wait, I think dad’s favorite scene is coming up. I fucking hope my face isn’t all red and puffy._

Zayn looks in the mirror after he’s done with his internal monologue to check for any traces of an emotional outburst. His cheeks are hollow, and the dark circles under his eyes are probably permanent, but he doesn’t look like he’s been crying.

_That probably means something, right? It’s probably not a good thing. But at least that means no one will notice that something’s wrong._

He shakes his head to clear it and takes several deep breaths. Then he goes out to join his family in the living room.

Doniya reaches over to remove the hair ties securing his braids before gently brushing his hair. Zayn concentrates on the movement, which distracts him long enough to calm down. He closes his eyes for a moment, then he hears his dad say, “‘My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’” Zayn smiles. It was always his dad’s favorite part. He hears Safaa’s high-pitched giggle, and it makes him laugh along with everyone else.

Zayn keeps his eyes closed as Doniya continues to brush his hair. He doesn’t fall asleep, but it’s fine. It’s a good day, and he doesn’t want to miss anything.

*

He’s supposed to be working. Instead, he’s lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. Zayn works as a freelance writer and takes on assignments from different clients online. He’s written practically everything from travel tips and how-to guides to book reviews and celebrity fashion. There was that one time when he was tasked to write about a specific kind of carpet, and another one when he was asked to dole out relationship advice even though he was spectacularly unqualified to do so.

It’s not his ideal career, but it allows him to stay at home. At least he doesn’t have to deal with office politics and interact with other people. He also doesn’t have to spend any money for fare and food because he’s mostly at home, which means that he saves up most of his salary to help pay with the bills.

His hours are flexible, but he hasn’t written anything despite being awake for almost three days now. He tried, he really did. Zayn sat on his desk, turned on his laptop, and opened a new document. All he had to do was start typing – a word, a letter, a punctuation mark, anything – but it’s like his fingers were frozen over the keyboard.

 _Fucking hell, just start typing_ was his constant refrain _._ But it didn’t do anything to motivate him to start because the document remained blank and the blinking cursor was annoying as fuck. He ended up spending hours watching animal videos while berating himself for not working and worrying about getting fired, but still not lifting a finger to do some actual work even though he knows he should because it’ll cost him his job, and he really needs this job, but he can’t seem to do the thing even though he has to do the thing, and he doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him _fucking hell, just start typing, you fucking fuck._

So now he’s lying in bed and staring at the ceiling because he’s tired even though he didn’t really do anything. But it’s not like he’s getting any rest anyway because even lying down is exhausting. His back is fucked and his head is always one second away from exploding. Sometimes he just starts crying and it goes on and on and on until everything hurts and he’s just drained physically, emotionally, mentally, everything-ally. But most of the time, he’s just lying in bed and staring at the ceiling because that’s the only thing he can do.

He never sleeps. His brain is like a projector that constantly flashes scenes and images that he doesn’t want to see at four in the morning. These are mostly stupid decisions that he regrets or things he wishes he could have said at the right moment. His brain even acts like a coroner sometimes, performing autopsies on disastrous interactions. Sometimes it even takes on the form of a medium, calling up ghosts from his past – humiliating experiences, rejected offers, that one careless spelling mistake in fifth grade that could have made him the champion.

Most of the time, his brain is the annoying roommate that never stops talking, always talking, never stops talking, _stop talking, stop, stop, make it stop!_ But it never does. He hears a constant stream of _you’re not good enough_ and  _nobody cares about you_ and  _you’ll never be happy_. Zayn hears them so often that the words seep into his bloodstream like a virus, rendering him weak and useless just like his brain has been trying to tell him for years.

*

 _72 hours_ , he thinks. He’s been awake for 72 hours now. Zayn’s so tired he wants to cry, but nothing comes out – not even a single tear. His bones are weak, his body is sore, and his voice is hoarse from underuse.

It’s times like this when he seriously questions the purpose of his existence. He’s wasted so much of his life, which makes him feel like a worthless and insignificant speck that should have traded lives with someone who actually matters. Zayn always feels like he needs to apologize for existing and wasting space. _I’m sorry I haven’t done anything to help anyone in the world. I’m sorry some of you are not here, yet I am._

The world has gone to shit, and he can’t even justify the validity of his feelings anymore. It’s not fair to constantly want to die when there are countless people struggling to survive. _Yet here I am – a hollow shell of a person – watching from afar, crying over what’s happening in the world, and doing nothing of importance. It’s gross and disheartening and I feel guilty for every teen angst bullshit that my brain has conjured up for me. I know my feelings are valid, but there are actual people suffering somewhere in the world, and I don’t know what to do. What the fuck should I do? I can’t even properly take care of myself, how the fuck am I going to help anyone else?_

Zayn could say that he’s trying his damn hardest to be somebody that anyone would be proud of, but he’s tired and sad and terrified all the fucking time. It makes him feel like shit because he’s been fortunate with the family that he has and the life he has lived. Zayn really has no reason to complain, but he’s been in a perpetual state of dissatisfaction and it frustrates him to no end.

He did make his family proud, for a while, when he was younger and oozing with potential. Zayn was the smartest in the family, the smartest in all of his classes, the one who won every academic competition and brought home trophies and medals for his parents to put on display. Everybody expected him to do great things. Everyone predicted that he was going to be a star in his own right. But his light fizzled out at some point, and nothing has ever managed to kindle it.

There was a plan. He had a plan. Study, get good grades, graduate, get his master’s degree, get a job, move out and get his own apartment, save up enough to buy his parents a house, handle the financial responsibilities so he can let his parents rest, maybe write a book or put some of his art on display, donate to charities, settle down if he meets someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with, have kids, write some more, maybe teach, start a garden, be happy.

But then his dad had an accident, and his life stopped. Suddenly, nothing seemed more important than spending every waking moment with his family and doing anything he can to take care of them.

His dad **–** always up and running to fix things on his own instead of paying someone to do something he knows he’ll do better – fell off their roof and landed on the ground on his back. It was a few weeks before college graduation, so Zayn was still in school when it happened. He’ll never forget how his mom’s voice sounded when she called to tell him. Zayn will never forget how his heart threatened to leap from his chest to his throat and down on the ground to thrash wildly in panic and outrage.

That was the worst thing that ever happened to him. It was the worst thing that ever happened to his family. He’s their rock, the best dad in the world, the best human in the entire multiverse. They have a good life because his dad worked hard to make sure of it.

Seeing his dad in the hospital put things in perspective for Zayn. None of his personal goals seemed to matter anymore. It seemed selfish to want things for himself when he could just focus on helping his family instead. After graduation, he moved back home instead of going to graduate school like he initially planned. He didn’t want to spend any more money on his selfish pursuits when his family could use every bit of it to pay for his dad’s hospital bills and his sisters’ education. So he stayed at home, took care of his dad while his mom was at work, and started doing freelance commissions.

It was good for a while. He’s earning enough money to shoulder most of the financial responsibilities, and he took care of everything so his parents didn’t have to worry about anything at all. Zayn figured that his situation would be temporary. He could still go back to school if he wanted, or apply for jobs elsewhere and still follow his initial plan.

But that was three years ago.

Eventually, his dad was released from the hospital and soon, he was up and running around the house, trying to find something to do because “there’s always something to do, Zayn. Always.” His dad’s infectious energy and constant presence lifted their spirits and livened up the whole house. He’s their rock, the best dad in the world, the best human in the entire multiverse. All’s right with the world. At least for a while.

Old moon faded into a new one, and Zayn soon found himself in the same place doing the same thing, with intermittent storms in his head and a gaping hole in his chest.

His dad may have fully recovered, but Zayn never did.

*

So he seeks refuge in favorite things: a good book, his mom’s samosas, movie marathons with his sisters, his dad’s record collection, Rhino’s cuddles, a hot shower. They offer a brief respite and bring him momentary pleasure.

Zayn also finds solace in a pack of cigarettes and the occasional beer. He knows he needs to quit, that turning to bad habits isn’t doing him or his declining health any favors, but he needs something to do, something to take his mind off his clusterfuck.

It probably would have been easier if he has anyone to help him with distractions, but he mostly keeps to himself or spends some time with his family. He doesn’t have any friends, nor does he have any interest in going out to meet new people. Any social skills he’d somehow acquired in school have atrophied after years of sequestering himself from the world.

Everything that used to make him happy now infuriates him and makes him feel utterly dispirited. Zayn used to make pretty things with his hands – drawings, collages, paintings, stories, poetry. Now his hands hide inside his pockets, curl up into fists, shake, fumble, fidget. It’s been a long creative winter, and Zayn hasn’t made anything he’s proud of in ages.

Nobody knows that he spends every damn day in abject panic. No one has to know that he lives with a raging torrent of grim thoughts, crippling insecurities, irrational fears, and self-loathing. He’s been collecting masks since he was younger and wears a different one each day to assure everyone around him that he’s fine. So they believe that he’s fine. And sometimes he does, too. He’s been saying it enough times that it has become easier to believe in the lie instead of confessing the truth.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. There are good days, when he gets a few hours of sleep and it’s easier to get out of bed. When he turns in a piece that he’s particularly proud of and it gives him a sense of accomplishment. Or when his sisters are home from school and they coax him into watching their favorite movies until dawn. When he catches his parents doing something mundane yet sweet, like his dad tucking his mom’s hair behind her ear or his mom wiping a stray crumb from the corner of his dad’s mouth. Or when he hears a favorite song at a particular moment and it fills him with ease. When he gets lost in a good book, and it gives him a chance to escape and forget for a few moments of bliss.

It’s not all doom and gloom. But the sadness is always there, looming. It creeps back in and often at the most random or inopportune times. Most days, he can handle it. But some days, his sadness becomes too heavy to lift. Lately, it’s gotten heavier and his bones have gotten weaker. It’s only a matter of time before he gets crushed, until all that’s left of him is a pile of dust.

Sometimes Zayn refuses to go to bed, terrified of being alone with his thoughts and squeezing his heart dry. Sometimes he’s afraid of falling asleep, terrified that he’ll never wake up.

But most of the time he worries that if, by some miracle, he does fall asleep, he’d wake up and it’d be much, much, _much_ later, and he’d have wasted an entire day just lying motionless in bed. Just another day of being an insignificant speck with inconsequential contributions to this world.

That’s a terrifying thought: to realize that you’ve done nothing of substance while time just passed and left you behind. You try to catch up, and you try your damn hardest, but you can’t, because you’re stuck.

Every night, it’s the same thing. Zayn begs for sleep to take him, but it rarely does. He tries to close his eyes, but his thoughts always pry them open. Zayn is exhausted beyond belief, and he feels pulsating pain everywhere – in his bones, in every crevice of his body, in his trembling hands, in his eyes, in his head, in his chest. Mostly in his chest. There’s always a lingering tiredness in his bones and a physical pain in his chest, and it gets harder and harder to pull himself through another day.

But Harry helps.

At least, the idea of him does.

*

Zayn found the bookshop by accident.

It was one of those rare days when he felt like going outside to wander aimlessly around the neighborhood. He was so lost in his own world that he didn’t notice when he ended up in an unfamiliar part of town. It was already dark out, and he didn’t bring his phone because he turned it off and hid it in his desk drawer a few weeks ago.

Zayn was alone in a strange and poorly-lit place, which was enough to make his heart thrash around in panic and fear. But then he spotted the bookshop around the corner, and his worries gradually dissipated.

Homeward Bound, it’s called. An apt name for a place that quickly became his refuge. Zayn liked that it’s a pun and that it references a song that his dad likes. The bookshop was tucked away in a corner, like a secret that only a few people shared. Seeing it made him feel at ease, somehow. Like he’s supposed to be there. As if his heart knew what he was longing for that night and led him straight to it.

It’s a house fashioned into a store, with floor-to-ceiling shelves, hardwood floors, and big windows with succulent plants lining the windowsills. Multicolored throw blankets were draped over couches that looked more comfortable than Zayn’s bed at home.

The walls were painted white and adorned with framed photographs of authors, miscellaneous objects, and people Zayn doesn’t recognize. Taped up on one side are literary passages, old newspaper clippings, and letters from customers. Zayn particularly loves the random collection of artwork that ranged from reproductions of iconic pieces to finger paintings and crayon doodles.

Each table was decorated with a vase of flowers and a box of handmade bookmarks crafted from damaged books and old magazines. There’s a desk with a typewriter for when inspiration strikes, and a children’s corner with toys and art materials. The tiny kitchen area served coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, as well as an assortment of treats like cakes, cookies, and sandwiches.

A fat orange cat moved languidly across the room and ignored everyone, while a turntable atop a shelf of vinyl records played familiar songs from decades past.

And then there’s Harry.

Zayn saw him behind the counter with his head bent down, reading with rapt attention. He didn’t even look up when the little bells above the door chimed as Zayn walked into the store. Harry must have sensed his presence at some point because he eventually looked up from his book and flashed him a smile. It lit up his whole face and Zayn felt immediately warmed by it.

He looked like a Renaissance angel with his halo of curls, bright green eyes, and ridiculously pink lips. It took Zayn a few seconds to recover from the full-blown assault on his senses; the boy had already gone back to reading before Zayn could smile or say hello. So he looked around the shop, picked out a childhood favorite from one of the shelves, settled on the floor near the back of the store, and read his book.

Since discovering the bookshop, Zayn made sure to stop by even for just a few minutes. Stepping into the store always made him feel calm. It was a safe space that quickly became his happy place. His _only_ happy place. It’s where he went every time things got a bit too much for him to handle. It’s where he went to breathe. It’s where he went to just be.

(The fact that the pretty boy behind the counter was always around may or may not have also influenced Zayn’s decision to stop by every time he had the chance to do so.)

It took Zayn a couple of days to learn his name. He heard someone call him Harry just as he was making his way towards his usual spot. Zayn thought that the name suited him. It was simple, classic, formidable. An ordinary name for a magical boy, just like his wizard namesake.

Zayn also learned a few other things about Harry as the days progressed. How he likes writing notes on the margins in pencil and dunking his cookies in his coffee before he eats them. Or how proud he is of the random artwork on his walls, particularly the ones that were made by his godchildren. The fact that he has several godchildren. How he genuinely cares about people - remembering everybody’s names and taking the time to talk to anyone about books or music or at one point, the magnificence of poutine.

It’s remarkable how Harry can light up the whole place just by being there. Little kids squeal with delight when they see him. Old people treat him as if he’s their grandson, pinching his cheeks and bringing him home-cooked meals.

Harry also reads a ton of Bukowski, much to Zayn’s surprise. He looked utterly absorbed as he pored over a copy of _Love Is a Dog from Hell_ , which Zayn still hasn’t read yet. Harry seems to share the same taste in music with Zayn’s dad, playing all the classics and even singing along to most of them. He likes to dance even if he’s not particularly good, often swaying his hips to the beat in that insouciant manner that means he doesn’t care for Zayn’s well-being.

To Zayn’s utter horror, Harry has an odd habit of wearing barely-buttoned shirts that showcase his toned chest and too-tight jeans that accentuate his mile-long legs. He saunters around the place looking like that everyday, as if unaware of his effect on people. Harry laughs with his eyes closed, and he pinches his bottom lip with his fingers when he’s deep in thought. He speaks slowly, as if relishing every word, and his voice sounds like a 4 a.m. phone call in a dark corner of the room.

Zayn thinks he’s beautiful. He thinks all of him is beautiful. Zayn thinks he likes Harry a little bit more each time he discovers something new about him. He’s never approached him or uttered a single word to him, but he likes to think that someday he will.

That first night, Zayn looked up from his book to sneak a glance at the boy behind the counter and found him reading the same thing. To Zayn, it felt like his favorite book was recommending a person. It was like recognizing a kindred spirit. Maybe they vibrated at the same frequency. Or maybe they knew each other in a past life and were destined to meet a thousand times in a thousand different ways. Whatever it was, it quelled his disquiet. It made his heart crawl out from its cage of bones and settle.

One day, Zayn will work up the courage to say hello. Someday, he’ll tell Harry that being around him feels like coming home.

For now, he’s perfectly content with meeting Harry in his head-world.

*

It’s alarming, and frankly, quite pathetic, that the best part of Zayn’s day is when he’s daydreaming about a different life.

But that’s how he copes.

And for a while now, that’s the way it goes.

Sometimes, it’s just about rectifying his mistakes and making different decisions. Other times, it’s about all the kinds of love he craves. Most of the time, it’s about being successful or getting rich enough to take care of himself and his family.

But lately, it’s been about one thing. Since that first night at the bookshop, Zayn hasn’t been able to daydream about anything else but him. Just him. Only him.

In his head-world, Zayn’s a less anxious and more self-assured version of himself. The kind that can approach a pretty boy behind the counter and make him laugh. Someone who can easily engage in witty repartee or recite his favorite literary passages with the drop of a hat. Maybe he’s suave and smooth – the type of person that can sweep anyone off their feet. Someone who knows what he wants and is unafraid to seize it. Or maybe just the type of person who unabashedly shows affection and isn’t terrified of revealing pieces of his soul.

Maybe in another universe, he could be that for Harry. Maybe in that universe, all of it is true. Maybe in this universe, they’re friends. Maybe in another universe, Harry likes him, too.

As it is, Zayn’s just Zayn and he doesn’t think he’s good enough for anyone, much less a beautiful boy with a wizard namesake.

So he’s never approached Harry or uttered a single word to him. But he likes to think that someday he will.

Sometimes, Zayn thinks he could be in love with him. Sometimes, Zayn thinks he already is.

That’s why he had to stop.

*

Doniya catches him mid-sob one afternoon, when he was supposed to be alone in the house because everyone was out doing regular outside things that Zayn no longer has the physical or mental capacity to handle.

Zayn was holed up in his room, attempting to read the new book he bought months ago but didn’t have the energy or proper brain function to give it the attention it deserved. Embarrassingly enough, he still couldn’t even get past the first page because his brain kept ordering him to read the same paragraph three, four, five times, until all he ever wanted to do was pull his hair out in frustration.

He used to read two, sometimes three, books in a day. If he ran out of new books, he’d turn to his favorites and read them all over again with just as much fervor as the first time. But these days, he’s just too exhausted to do anything else other than curl up in bed and wait for sleep to take him.

Zayn was about to give up and close his book when it accidentally slipped from his grasp and fell with a thud on the floor. Ordinarily, one would just shrug it off and pick the book back up or just leave it on the floor because shit like that happens everyday to everyone. But to Zayn, who hasn’t properly reacted to anything in ages, it’s just another revelation of incompetence that finally drove him to tears in the middle of the afternoon.

So that’s what Doniya witnesses when she comes home a few hours earlier than expected – her brother, curled up in a ball on his bed, sobbing over a book that didn’t get the care and attention it deserved.

*

Aware that he’s been caught and too exhausted to make up another bullshit excuse, Zayn just stays where he is and sobs for what feels like eternity. Shocked and utterly helpless, Doniya crawls into bed next to Zayn and wraps an arm around him. Zayn lifts his hand to hold Doniya’s and squeezes it to say _I’m sorry, I’m a mess, but thank you for being here._ Doniya squeezes his hand back to let him know that _it’s okay, take your time, I’ll be here,_ _I’m not leaving you._

They stay like that for a while – Doniya holding on to Zayn as if terrified that he’ll slip away and disappear forever, and Zayn clinging to his sister for fear of realizing that this is just another one of his daydreams and he’s alone, all alone, all alone.

So they stay like that for a while until eventually, they both fall asleep.

*

Night falls, and the room is cloaked in darkness. It’s quiet, save for the faint sounds of dogs barking in the distance and cars whizzing past.

Zayn is awake, but Doniya is still asleep next to him. The tears have dried on their own, but the memory of what transpired earlier looms over Zayn’s head. His heart breaks for the way his sister is clinging to him – her arm wrapped around his middle and her hand clutched tightly to his shirt.

He feels guilt boiling low in his stomach for subjecting his sister to that kind of horror. Zayn hates that Doniya saw him like that. She’s probably worried and terrified because she’s never seen him like that before. No one has seen him like that before.

Zayn feels Doniya stir and rouse from sleep. Her grip loosens as she yawns, but Zayn stays where he is and doesn’t say anything. Doniya must remember what happened earlier because she moves closer and tightens her grip on his shirt. Zayn covers her hand with his to let her know that he’s okay, and Doniya lets out a muffled sob in response.

“Zayn, I–” Doniya gets cut off as the door opens, letting the light in and interrupting their moment. The fluorescent light from outside is much too bright for their tired eyes, but they see Safaa slowly making her way towards Zayn’s bed.

Doniya sits up and turns on the lamp on Zayn’s bedside table, making Safaa gasp and stop in her tracks. “Hey, Saf.”

Safaa places a hand on her chest. “Don’t scare me like that!” She walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. “What are you doing here? Everyone’s looking for you. Also, is Zayn awake?”

Zayn rolls over on his back and stretches languorously. “I’m awake,” he says as he sits up and ruffles Safaa’s hair. “What’s up?”

“Time for dinner.” Safaa crawls into the space between them and leans her head on Zayn’s shoulder. “What were you two doing here?”

Zayn gives Doniya a panicked look over Safaa’s head and tries to convey with his eyes that he never wants anyone else to find out about what happened.

Doniya shakes her head and gives him a reassuring smile. “We were just talking.”

“Must have been a boring conversation if you both fell asleep,” Safaa mutters.

Zayn snorts. “Didn’t you say it’s time for dinner?”

“Yeah,” Safaa says before turning on her side to hug Zayn. “One more minute.”

Shocked by his sister’s sudden display of affection, Zayn wraps his arms around Safaa and kisses the top of her head. He turns to see Doniya smiling at them as she gently brushes Safaa’s hair with her fingers.

When they lock eyes, he notices a hint of sadness behind Doniya’s smile that breaks his heart. Zayn knows that he needs to tell her the truth. It won’t be easy for either of them, but he knows that it’s time.

Doniya places a gentle hand on his cheek, and he flashes her a reassuring smile in return.

 _Later_ , Doniya tells him with her eyes.

 _Later,_ Zayn promises with his.

*

Doniya volunteers to do the dishes with Zayn after dinner, much to the delight of their little sisters. They work in silence as Doniya lets Zayn take the lead, knowing full well that he has his own system that needs to be followed.

Before they head back to their own rooms, Doniya grabs his hand and tugs him closer to give him a hug. “Goodnight,” she whispers in his ear.

Zayn knows what she’s doing. He knows that she doesn’t want to pressure him into talking about what happened. Doniya wants him to talk to her because he wants to, not because he feels like he has to. Zayn gets an overwhelming surge of emotions that he doesn’t know how to deal with yet. But for now, he kisses his sister on the cheek and says goodnight. He tugs on her hand and squeezes it to say thank you, to which Doniya responds with a knowing nod.

*

It’s five in the morning when Zayn knocks quietly on Doniya’s bedroom door. She opens it a few seconds later, looking tired and sleep-rumpled but not entirely surprised by his presence. Zayn offers her a mug of tea, which earns him a bright smile and a kiss on the cheek. Doniya lets him in, and she watches as he settles on the floor with his back against the side of her bed. She pulls the duvet off her bed and wraps it around their shoulders as she scoots closer to Zayn on the floor.

They sit in silence, with Doniya quietly sipping her tea and Zayn thinking about how to begin. After a while, Zayn rests his head on Doniya’s shoulder and just starts talking. Doniya listens intently to every word as he tells her everything – no lies, no pretense, just the truth.

Sunlight streams through the windows by the time Zayn stops talking. They hear footsteps outside the door and down the stairs, followed by the sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. The intro to “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” wafts through the speakers, and they laugh as they lock eyes while singing along to the song that their dad always plays in the morning. Always.

Soon, they’ll hear more footsteps thudding down the stairs, and the delicious scent of their mom’s cooking will permeate the air. But for now, he stays glued to Doniya’s side as they enjoy a few more minutes of early morning quiet.

“I knew that something was going on with you,” Doniya says after a few minutes of silence. “I knew that you were keeping something to yourself, but I didn’t know how to ask. I wanted you to be the one to tell me about it when you’re ready. Now I feel like maybe I should have just asked you about it the moment I noticed it.”

Doniya’s voice starts shaking so she pauses for a moment before taking a deep breath. “You’ve been carrying so much weight on your shoulders all these years. Maybe I could have helped lighten the load had I known sooner.”

Zayn sits up and turns to face his sister. “Hey.” He waits for Doniya to look up at him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Do you hear me? Don’t blame yourself for this.”

Doniya’s lips begin to quiver as she tries, unsuccessfully, to blink away tears.

“I wanted to tell you,” Zayn admits quietly.

“Why didn’t you?” Doniya asks.

“I don’t even really understand it,” Zayn says as he shrugs his shoulders. “There are days when there’s absolutely nothing wrong, but the sadness is still there, burrowing deeper and deeper into my chest. How do I explain something that I can’t even understand myself? How do I tell you or anyone else that there’s nothing you can do? That there’s nothing to fix?” Zayn sighs. “And I know how it sounds, okay? Complaining when I’m far more blessed than most people makes me feel like an ungrateful asshole.”

“You’re not,” Doniya assures him. “And your feelings are valid.”

“I know that.” Zayn leans his back against the side of the bed and hugs his knees. “But there are a lot of horrible things happening right now in all parts of the world, yet I’m here whining about how my life turned out.”

Zayn turns his head to the side and rests his chin on his arm. “But I’m so sad. And I still feel guilty sometimes for doing what I have to do to alleviate my sadness in some way. Drinking? Smoking? Sleeping too much or not sleeping at all? Not working? Eating too much or not eating at all? Daydreaming all the fucking time? Basically being a malfunctioning adult? Of course I’d feel guilty. I’ve been feeling guilty practically my whole life.”

“You shouldn’t,” Doniya says, placing a gentle hand on Zayn’s cheek. “And you should never apologize for how you feel and all the ways you tried to deal with it.”

“I know. But I can’t help it. I always feel like I have to apologize for everything.” Zayn sighs. “I still go through my whole fucking routine, trying desperately not to think or feel. I don’t want to die–” Zayn hears Doniya gasp, and he reaches out to squeeze her shoulder in reassurance. “–but I just kind of want to stop existing. I’m not really contributing anyway, and I’m just a fucking waste of space. Nobody deserves to be assaulted by my worthlessness and pathetic existence. I feel like it would be easier for everyone if I just disappear.”

“That’s not true!” Doniya exclaims, her lips trembling and her voice shaking. “Please don’t think that.”

“I’m trying,” Zayn says quietly. “But it’s really fucking hard to think otherwise. I hate myself, and I hate that I feel this way. I hate that I want to cry all the time and pretend I’m okay. I hate that I don’t do anything. I hate that I’m making you sad right now.”

Doniya shakes her head, which makes Zayn chuckle despite himself. He catches a tear streaming down her cheek before leaning his head against her shoulder and closing his eyes. “I hate that Mom and Dad will eventually find out and be heartbroken. I know they’ll blame themselves for this just as you’ve done when you found out. I don’t want that. I never want any of you to worry about me. That’s why I tried so hard to keep it hidden.”

His lips quiver as he chokes back a sob. “But I’m tired. I’m so tired of being useless. Of crying all the fucking time. Of daydreaming about a life I can’t have. Of pretending to be okay. I’m just so tired. My heart hurts. And I’m just so fucking exhausted.”

Zayn draws a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m getting old, and I need to get my shit together. I don’t want to die a fucking disappointment. I don’t want to leave this planet without getting a life and making even a small impact on anyone or anything.”

Doniya lets out a strangled sob, and Zayn immediately sits up to pull her against his chest. He holds the back of her head with one hand as he hugs her and lets her cry, setting aside his own feelings to comfort his sister.

After a while, Doniya’s sobs quieten. She pulls away from the hug, wipes her tears with the back of her hand, then takes a deep breath. “I hate that you’re going through this, but I especially hate that you’re dealing with it on your own. But I’m here now, okay? I may not know exactly what you’re going through, but I’m here.”

“I know,” Zayn says, flashing her a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Doniya takes his hand and covers it with her own. “You know, you try so hard to hide your sadness but your eyes almost always give it away. I hate that you feel the need to pretend to be okay for our sake. I know that you do it everyday because you love us so fiercely that you would put our needs before your own. But babe, you have to stop doing that. You need to take care of yourself.”

Zayn’s throat tightens, but a choked sob makes its way up through his lips. “I’m trying. But it’s so hard.”

“I know,” Doniya says. “But you’re trying, and that’s what matters.”

Zayn digs his fingernails into his palms as he shakes his head. “But I don’t even really do anything. Sometimes it’s really fucking hard to do the simplest things like taking a shower or putting on a different shirt. Some days I feel like I’m possessed – I’m aware of everything, and I know I’m supposed to do something, but I can’t do anything. That’s fucked up.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head furiously. “I hate it. I fucking hate it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m like this. You must hate me right now. I hate myself, too. I’m sorry.”

Doniya reaches out and gently places both palms on either side of his face. “Hey, hey, look at me.” She waits for Zayn to look up before she continues. “You have to stop apologizing for who you are and how you feel. I love you. I could never hate you. You are strong and kind and brave.”

Zayn shakes his head again in protest. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Doniya argues. “You get up to wrestle the same demons everyday, and it’s not always easy, but you still try. And you try again. Even when it’s a struggle to just stand up, you do so anyway. That’s bravery.”

Tears start streaming down Zayn’s cheeks, but Doniya wipes them away gently with her thumbs. “It’s okay, love. You’re trying. If you can’t do anything today, you can always try again tomorrow. That’s okay. You’re trying, that’s what matters. You matter. And it’s okay to ask for help. I’m here. Always. But most importantly, so are you. You are here, and you are loved. Please remember that.”

Zayn rubs a hand at his chest, trying to contain the surge of emotions that threaten to spill over. He leans forward to hug Doniya, resting his chin on her shoulder and turning to the side to whisper “Thank you” in her ear.

“You’re welcome,” Doniya whispers back as she wraps her arms around Zayn. She hears him yawn audibly, which makes her chuckle. “You want to lie down for a bit?”

Zayn nods as he flashes her a sheepish smile. He crawls into bed and pulls the blanket up to his chin. “What about you?”

“I’m okay,” Doniya tells him. “You should get some sleep. I’ll be here.”

“Goodnight,” Zayn mumbles, his eyes already drifting shut. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he hears Doniya say before his breathing evens out and he finally falls asleep.

*

Zayn wakes up with rain lightly tapping on the windows. He’s always loved the rain with its earthy scent, comforting sound, and steady rhythm that make him want to stay in bed and sleep for days.

 _It’s a good day_ , he thinks. A weight has been lifted off his shoulders, and he feels well-rested despite sleeping for only a few hours.

Zayn yawns as he stretches languorously. He catches a glimpse of Doniya in the corner, reading something on her phone and writing notes on a piece of paper. “Good morning,” he greets as he sits up and leans against the headboard.

Doniya looks up from her phone and smiles at him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” he tells her. “What time is it?”

“About two in the afternoon.” Doniya stands up and walks over to the bed to sit next to Zayn. “You hungry?”

“A little bit, yes.” Zayn leans his head against Doniya’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

Doniya kisses the top of his head. “I’m good. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I’ll always worry about you,” Zayn says, which makes Doniya chuckle. “Thank you for this morning. I know it was a lot to take in all at once. But it really meant a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.”

Doniya starts tracing comforting circles on his palm. “You mean a lot to me, too, you know. That’s why it was so hard to see you like that. It breaks my heart that you had to suffer through all of that alone. But you don’t have to anymore, okay? I’m here. And when you’re ready to tell Mom and Dad, they’ll be here for you, too. Just as they’ve always been for all of us. But for now, you’ve got me. If you need to talk, I’m here. Even if you don’t want to talk about anything, I’ll be here. We can just sit here and do nothing.”

Zayn feels warmer and lighter than he’s ever been in ages. “Sounds like a good plan.”

They sit like that for a while, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain. Zayn almost dozes off on Doniya’s shoulder, but then he hears her clear her throat so he sits up to pay attention.

“So I’ve been reading a lot, trying to understand what you’re going through so I can help you more,” Doniya says while looking at her hands, as if she’s embarrassed or terrified of Zayn’s reaction. “And I found out that sometimes it helps to just go out for a walk. You know, get some fresh air and squeeze in a bit of exercise. So, I was wondering if you wanted to do that? Together? Maybe later?”

Zayn gets choked up thinking about Doniya spending her morning doing a lot of research just so she could learn how to help him. Overcome with emotions, Zayn just nods in reply as he tries to subtly blink away tears.

Doniya flashes him a soft smile. “Okay, we’ll do that then.”

*

Later that afternoon, they go out for a walk in the rain. Zayn holds the big red umbrella while Doniya feeds him orange slices.

 _It’s a good day_ , Zayn thinks. The slow endless drizzle soothes his nerves and makes everything outside glisten. It’s a beautiful day, and Zayn feels all the tension melting away. He takes a deep breath and exhales.

Doniya loops her arm around his as she tells him about something funny that happened at work. Zayn is used to doing everything on his own that even something as simple as going out for a walk with someone he loves is already a monumental change. But it’s nice to just listen to his sister’s stories instead of focusing on the racing thoughts in his head.

Zayn catches a glimpse of the bookshop in the corner, and he smiles despite himself.

Doniya must notice because she pauses in the middle of her story to nudge him on the shoulder. “Do you think he’s there right now?”

“Who?”

“The guy you have a crush on in the bookstore.”

“I don’t have a crush–” Zayn begins to say, but he stops when he sees Doniya narrowing her eyes at him. “Fine. I do. Who told you about that? Was it Safaa?”

Doniya smirks as she shrugs her shoulders.

Zayn notices a familiar figure inside the bookshop, and he instantly feels his lips curve up into a grin. _It’s a good day_ , he thinks. Days when he sees the boy in the bookshop usually are.

*

“Why are you always sad?”

Zayn startles at the question and turns towards his bedroom door to see Safaa chewing on her lip and playing with the hem of her shirt. He sits up, scoots over to the side, then pats the empty spot next to him. Safaa slowly walks towards the bed and crawls into the space beside him.

“Why do you always seem so sad lately?” Safaa asks after a few minutes of silence.

He flashes her a soft smile and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I never am when you’re around.”

Safaa traces the tattoos on his arm in a repetitive motion that soothes his nerves. “But what happens when I’m not here? When you’re alone?”

Zayn takes a moment to think about the best way to explain what he’s going through to his sister. Safaa is smart and intuitive, so she probably already has an idea about what’s going on with him. He doesn’t want to lie to her, and he wants to make sure that she knows that it has nothing to do with her.

“Sometimes I get really sad, but it’s not anyone’s fault. It’s like getting sick – I don’t feel well and I just want to stay in bed for days. But after a while, I’m okay.” Zayn watches as Safaa continues to run a finger over the swirls of ink on his arm. “There are days when it’s difficult for me to relax or smile, but I’m trying.”

Safaa’s hand stills, and Zayn worries that he might have upset her. He feels a gentle hand on his cheek, and he looks up to meet Safaa’s gaze. “I know it’s hard, but you’re doing the best you can. I’m proud of you.”

Zayn feels tears pricking his eyes, and there’s a lump in his throat as he pulls his sister into a tight hug. He rests his chin on her shoulder and cradles the back of her head with one hand. “Thanks, babe. I love you.”

He hears Safaa sniffle before she buries her face in his neck and mumbles, “Love you.”

They stay wrapped around each other for a while before Safaa pulls away from the hug and grins at him. “Do you want to watch _Aladdin_ with me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can we watch it here?”

“Of course.” Zayn retrieves his laptop from his desk and walks back to the bed. He leans against the headboard and places the laptop between them. “Do you want to get something to eat first?”

Safaa shakes her head before moving to rest her head on his stomach. She hits play and they watch the movie together, laughing at Genie’s antics and singing along to every song.

Since then, Safaa has been spending most of her free time hanging out with Zayn in his room. Sometimes, she goes in and does her homework while Zayn finishes his assignments. Other times, they watch Disney films or their favorite musicals and sing along to all the songs at the top of their lungs.

But what Zayn loves most of all is when they’re just lying in bed and talking about random things. Safaa updates him on the latest gossip in her school and asks him multiple questions about the boy he has a crush on in the bookstore. Zayn tells her nothing about Harry, but he does enjoy talking about his favorite books and making up stories to entertain his little sister.

His afternoons are no longer as dull or as lonely as before, and he now has something to look forward to everyday. On days when the sadness hits and he can’t get out of bed, Safaa keeps him company and talks his ear off to distract him from the thoughts in his head. But on good days, he makes sure to spend as much time as he can with the people he loves.

Zayn knows that he still has a long way to go. But at least he’s trying. Sometimes, that’s all you can do. Sometimes, that’s enough.

*

One sunny afternoon, Doniya invites Zayn to go out for a walk around the neighborhood. Zayn’s face instantly lights up, as it usually does, when he catches a glimpse of the bookshop around the corner.

Doniya notices, as usual, and she feigns a cough to hide her amusement. “I think it’s time for me to meet this mysterious man that makes you smile a lot.”

“What?”

“I want to go to the bookstore. Can we go in, please?”

“Why?”

“I just want to see him.”

“He might not even be there.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t as in you don’t want to?”

Zayn shrugs his shoulders in reply.

Doniya hums in consideration. “Well, I can go in by myself if that’s what you want.”

Zayn shrugs his shoulders again and doesn’t say anything. He knows it’s frustrating and probably getting on Doniya’s nerves. It’s getting on his nerves. Zayn knows that there’s nothing to worry about, that his sister’s there to help him no matter what. But he doesn’t know how to stop the racing thoughts in his head and the wild thrashing of his heart in his chest.

Remarkably, Doniya isn’t showing any signs of impatience or annoyance. It makes him feel better, somehow, knowing that his sister may not understand it yet, but at least she’s trying to.

“What’s his name?” Doniya asks.

Zayn startles at the question, but he recovers quickly and manages a small smile. “Harry.”

“Is he nice?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a nerd like you? Probably not. No one’s as big of a nerd as you are.”

Zayn chuckles despite himself.

“Have you met him yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

“I look like death. I don’t want to scare him off.”

“Oh, please. Even I can admit that you’re not horrible to look at.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“Yes. Eventually.”

“What’s stopping you from talking to him right now?” Doniya asks.

“I–” Zayn begins before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. “I’ve been daydreaming about him for so long that the idea of meeting him in real life terrifies me, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because then he’d be real. And this perfect idea I’ve had of him will be tainted.” Zayn ducks his head in embarrassment. “I don’t know this Harry. I only know the Harry in my head. And the Harry in my head likes me. This one doesn’t even know I exist.”

He doesn’t notice that he’s been digging his fingernails into his palms until Doniya reaches out to wrap her hands around his, making Zayn unclench his fists. “This Harry could like you if you give him a chance to get to know you.”

“I highly doubt it,” Zayn mutters.

“Babe, you’re a catch. Anyone would be lucky to have you in their life.”

He chews on his lip and shakes his head furiously. “I’m broken. And I’m a fucking mess. Who would want to deal with all of that? Why would anyone care?” Zayn lets out a long, shaky breath. “What if Harry does get to know me and he sees me the way I see myself? That’d be terrifying. I don’t think my heart can take it.” He scrunches his face and leans forward to rest his forehead on Doniya’s shoulder and hide his embarrassment.

“You’re not broken, though. You’re just half-baked.”

Zayn snorts despite himself. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Okay, that was awful,” Doniya says with a laugh. “But I meant to say that you’re not yet finished becoming whoever you’re supposed to be. You’re like cookie dough – you’re not done baking yet. But one day, you will be. You’ll be the most delicious cookie in the history of cookies, and everyone will fight over who gets to eat you.”

“Oh my God,” Zayn says, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“I’m rooting for Harry.”

Zayn snorts and Doniya bursts out laughing.

“You do realize you’ve just fucked up a _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ quote.”

“I know. Not my best moment. But I meant it.”

Zayn shrugs his shoulders noncommittally.

Doniya grabs his face with her hands to get him to look at her. “Listen to me. You are the best person I know, and I mean that. You may not be ready now, but someday you will be. And when that day comes, you’ll be fucking fantastic.”

Zayn exhales a laugh. “I don’t know about that. But thanks.”

“You can thank me by going into the bookstore with me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, then I’ll go in and just take a quick peek. I promise.”

Zayn bites his lip in thought while Doniya waits patiently for his reply. Finally, he sighs and says, “Fine. I’ll go in with you.” Doniya whoops with delight, which makes Zayn roll his eyes. He catches a glimpse of the bookstore and feels his heart race again. “Do I look okay? Should we go home and change first?”

Doniya steps forward and wraps her arms around him. “You look fine. Besides, he may not even be there.”

“He’s always there.”

“Well, he might not even notice us. We can just go in, look around for a while, then go home.” Doniya pulls away from the hug to look at him. “Is that okay?”

Zayn takes a deep breath before he nods in reply. They pass by a store with glass windows, and he glances at his reflection to check his hair. He sees Doniya smirking at him out of the corner of his eye, and he stops fussing with his hair to shove at her playfully. Doniya laughs, looping her arm around his as they head towards the bookshop.

When they get there, Doniya stops and turns to look at Zayn. “This is still okay, right? It’s fine if you don’t want to go in. You can stay here, and I’ll just take a quick peek, then we can go home. I’m serious.”

Zayn smiles. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll go in with you.”

Doniya leans in for a quick hug before she opens the door and goes in, dragging Zayn along with her. Harry’s at his usual spot behind the counter, and he looks up when he hears the bells chime as they walk inside.

“Is that him?” Doniya asks in a whisper.

“Yes,” Zayn whispers back.

“I understand now,” Doniya says as she nods appreciatively. “Except for that shirt. Are those tadpoles or sperm cells?”

Zayn lets out a chuckle. “I think they’re ink blots.”

“He saw us, though. Is that okay? You can head over to your corner, and I’ll distract him with my wits.”

Zayn laughs, feeling much better now that he’s already inside the bookstore. He stays behind and lets Doniya walk ahead to face Harry first.

Harry puts his book down and flashes them a bright smile. “Hello.”

Zayn hates how fast his heart is beating just from hearing Harry say one word. It’s practically jumping out of his chest, as if his heart wants to introduce itself to Harry, too.

“Hi,” Doniya says as she slowly approaches the counter. “This place is wonderful. Is it yours?”

“Yes, thank you.” Harry stands up and offers his hand to Doniya. “I’m Harry.”

“I’m Doniya.” She shakes Harry’s hand then gestures towards him. “And this is my brother, Zayn.”

Harry smiles at him as he holds out his hand in front of him. “Hi, Zayn.”

This is it. This is the moment that Zayn has been daydreaming about for an embarrassing amount of time. In all of those made-up scenarios in his head-world, he’s cool and suave with a flirty smirk and a witty opening line.

In this reality, however, Zayn trips over his feet as he reaches out to shake Harry’s hand. Instead of cursing the universe for his embarrassing display, he avoids Harry’s gaze and chooses to focus on the warmth of his hand as their palms touch. Zayn frets over his clammy hands and the tightness of his grip that he almost misses hearing Harry say, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Finally?” Zayn asks instead of saying hello.

“I see you here all the time, but we’ve never actually met.” Harry leans forward and rests his hands on the counter. “You come in, select a book from one of the shelves, walk towards the back, and sit on the floor to read.”

Zayn ducks his head and scratches at the back of his neck. “Oh. I didn’t think you noticed.”

Harry smirks. “I don’t think it’s possible for you to walk around and not get noticed.”

 _Is this flirting? Is he flirting with me? If he is, why? What am I even supposed to say to that? Was that a compliment? Or was it just something someone usually says to fill space? What does he think of_ –

“Do you actually pay for the books?” Doniya asks, interrupting Zayn’s inner monologue. “Because this isn’t a library, Zayn.”

“I know that!” Zayn hisses. “And I do pay. Sometimes.”

Doniya gasps in mock outrage. “Zayn!”

“Sometimes it’s just nice to sit around and read some old favorites, which I already have copies of at home.” Zayn turns to look at Harry with an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Harry says with a smile that’s bright enough to power the whole city. “You’re welcome to read whatever you want and stay as long as you like.”

“Oh, don’t encourage him.” Doniya slings an arm around Zayn’s shoulder. “This one reads. A lot. He may never leave this place with an invitation like that.”

Harry leans closer, making his button-up shirt gape open at the chest. Zayn resolutely tries not to stare at the smooth expanse of skin decorated with a smattering of black ink.

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” Harry says in a dangerously low voice that reverberates through Zayn’s chest.

Zayn’s brain decides to shut down as he thinks of an appropriate reply.

He hears Doniya chuckle before she loops her arm around his. “Come on, you have to show me where you usually sit,” she says, saving him from further embarrassment. “It was nice to meet you, Harry.”

Harry straightens up and flashes them a wide grin that makes his dimples curve in and his eyes light up. “It was a pleasure to meet you both.”

Zayn quickly turns his back to hide the embarrassing flush on his cheeks that Doniya, thankfully, pretends not to notice. He slings an arm around her shoulder and pulls her towards his favorite spot in the bookshop.

Doniya takes a quick look around and grabs a random book from one of the shelves before she sits down on the floor next to Zayn. “I like it here.”

“Me, too.”

“I like him.”

Zayn leans his head against the shelf of reference books in the back. “Yeah?”

“I think he could be good for you.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“No, I really think that the two of you could be good together.”

“How can you say that after just one encounter? Which was awkward, by the way. He probably thinks I’m an idiot now, thank you very much.”

“Oh, please. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“Bullshit.”

“If this was a cartoon, you’d both be surrounded by floating hearts right now.”

Zayn snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

Doniya shoves him playfully. “I’m trying to help you with your non-existent love life.”

“But you are my love life.”

“Oh, babe. That’s sweet. And sad.”

Zayn rests his head on his sister’s shoulder. “I know.”

“Look at you, though. You slept for a few more hours than you usually do, and you went out during the day. Most importantly, you just talked to the guy you’ve been crushing on for ages.”

Zayn hums noncommittally.

“No, don’t do that.” Doniya pokes him on the cheek. “You need to celebrate your small victories. It’s important.”

“Okay.”

“You went outside today and actually talked to another human being! Those are major accomplishments.”

Zayn shrugs his shoulders. “It’s not actually that far from the house, and I hardly talked to Harry. I basically just tripped and mumbled my way through that whole encounter.”

“Baby steps.” Doniya tilts her head in consideration as she glances at Harry behind the counter. “You said you’ve never talked to him before today, right?”

“Right.”

“So how do you pay for your book?”

Zayn winces. “I prepare the exact amount so I can just hand it in without wasting everyone’s time. I also wear earphones even when I’m not actually listening to music just so I wouldn’t have to talk to anybody.”

“Oh, babe.” Doniya takes his hand and traces the faint crescent moons on his palm. “I’m worried about you. I’m here for you, I’ll always be here for you no matter what, but I know that I won’t be able to give you the kind of help that you really need.”

Zayn nods but doesn’t say anything. He’s been thinking about seeing a therapist for a while now, but there’s always something that keeps him from doing so.

( _I don’t know any good therapists. It’s far too expensive. I don’t want my parents to worry. I’ve been managing on my own for years, so I’m sure I’ll be fine. Maybe there’s really nothing wrong with me, and I’m just being overdramatic. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.)_

Thinking about it now, he realizes that he’s just been making up excuses not to do it because he’s afraid. He is terrified of finding out that there’s something seriously wrong with him. Or worse, that there’s nothing wrong with him, and he’s really just a lazy and pathetic asshole that doesn’t deserve to live. Either way, it’s fucked up and too much for him to handle. So he just forgot about it and hoped for the best.

But now, he thinks it’s time for him to be brave and ask for help.

Zayn squeezes Doniya’s hand. “I know what you’re trying to say. And I think you’re right.”

“Yeah?” Doniya flashes him a soft smile. “I’ll take care of everything, I promise. I’ll do all the research, I’ll help you find a therapist, I’ll drive you to your appointments, I’ll stay in the waiting room or go with you to your first session if you want. Whatever you need, okay?”

Zayn leans forward to give Doniya a hug. “Okay.”

“And when you’re ready, I’ll be there with you when you decide to talk to Mom and Dad. Or I can talk to them for you, if you want.”

“No, I’ll do it. They deserve to know, and they deserve to hear it from me.”

Doniya pulls away from the hug to kiss him on the forehead. “You’ll get there in the end. It’s a gradual process, but at least you’re trying. You’re going to be okay. No, you’re going to be amazing! And I’m going to be so proud of you. I’m already proud of you.”

Zayn flashes her a grateful smile. “Thank you.” He squeezes Doniya’s shoulder before leaning back against one of the shelves and closes his eyes. “You’re really good at this.”

“At what, pretending to be a therapist?” Doniya asks with a laugh.

“Being the best sister ever,” Zayn replies. He hears Doniya’s breath hitch before she slaps him lightly on the stomach. “What was that for?”

“For making me cry in public,” Doniya mutters while wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

“I meant it, though.”

“I know you did.”

“Are you going to reward my niceness with a new book?”

“Maybe.”

“Good.” Zayn says as he rests his head again on Doniya’s shoulder. “We have to buy something before we leave. This isn’t a library, you know.”

He hears Doniya chuckle softly before he feels her press a kiss on the top of his head.

*

A few days after their conversation in the bookshop, Zayn sits down with his parents and tells them everything.

It’s heartbreaking to see his mom cry and his dad look so helpless, but he knows that they all need to talk about it.

At one point, Zayn says, “I’m sorry. Are you mad at me?”

“Oh, sonshine, no,” his mom says as she reaches out to gently cradle his face with her hands. “We love you. And we’re so sorry that you had to go through all of that on your own. But we’re so proud of you. Because you’re here, and you’re trying, and you’re doing the best you can.”

His dad gently wipes the tears streaming down his mom’s cheek with his finger. “You’ve been taking care of us for so long now. It’s time to let us do the same for you, okay? Whatever you decide to do, we’ll be here. We love you, Zayn.”

“I love you, too,” Zayn says, choking back a sob. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, baby.” His mom gently runs a hand through his hair. “We know how hard you’ve been trying. I just hope that you’ll learn to be kind to yourself. And I wish that the pain will ease soon.”

Zayn lets out a long, shaky breath. “I wish for that, too.”

Doniya reaches out to grab his hand to let him know that _it’s okay, you’re doing well, I’m here, I’m not leaving you._

Zayn squeezes her hand to say _I know, I trust you,_ _t_ _hank you for being here,_ _I love you_ _._

*

After careful consideration, Zayn finally found a therapist that he’s comfortable with. He was so nervous for his first session that he changed his clothes several times and threw up twice in the bathroom. It was a bit awkward at first because he didn’t know how to begin. But once he started, he didn’t know how to stop.

Doniya drove him to his first appointment, just as she promised, and held his hand as they headed to his doctor’s office. She sat in the waiting room, which helped him feel at ease, and gave him a hug as soon as his session was done.

Zayn never misses an appointment, and he doesn’t forget to take his scheduled dose of medication. He keeps a notebook where he writes down his tasks for the day, and relishes the satisfaction that comes with crossing off an item from his list. Zayn finally quit his job, and it’s the easiest decision he’s ever made. Finding a new one is proving to be difficult, but it’s better than being stuck in something that makes him miserable everyday.

It’s not always easy, but he tries everyday to show up for his appointments and take his medication. There are days when it takes little to no effort for him to talk, but there are days when talking feels like chewing on shards of glass. Sometimes he’s relaxed and engages in a bit of small talk before his session starts, but there are times when he just wants to lie down and not say anything at all. Zayn thinks he’s doing relatively well, but he still struggles to get up every morning to battle the same demons that rendered him weak and useless the night before. It’s difficult – and sometimes physically impossible – but he tries everyday for those who matter.

Zayn helps out around the house more and tries to spend as much time as he can with his parents. He hangs out with Safaa and Waliyha every afternoon, and he goes out for a walk with Doniya and Rhino everyday.

His face lights up every time he catches a glimpse of the bookshop, but he doesn’t go in anymore. At least, not yet. For now, his sole focus is on taking care of himself and getting better. But he’ll come back. He knows he will. And when he does, he’ll be ready for anything.

*

Zayn opens his eyes as sunlight streams through his bedroom window.

 _Five hours_ , he thinks after checking the time on his phone. He slept for five hours, which is a new record.

He hears footsteps outside his door and down the stairs. Next, he hears pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. Zayn waits for the intro to “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” to blast through the speakers before he stretches his arms over his head. He yawns audibly and briefly thinks about going back to sleep, but _if you don’t get up now, you may never get up again._

Zayn sits up and surveys his room. He had a sudden urge to fix it the other day, and he’s happy with the results. Zayn spent hours scrubbing and dusting and sweeping, making sure that every nook and cranny was spotless. He also organized his closet and set aside a pile of clothes to donate. Most of his time was spent with his books – yanking them off the shelves, dusting off each one, and rearranging them. His desk is clean, and there’s a new collage of photos decorating his wall. He changed his sheets, opened the windows, and listened to his favorite songs on full blast.

It was a good day. He had to take a break every few minutes, but it was a productive day. Zayn crawled into bed after a long, hot shower and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Now, he feels well-rested and proud of his accomplishment. It’s a good feeling. One that he hopes will last for days on end.

Zayn hears footsteps thudding down the stairs and gets a whiff of the delicious scent of his mom’s cooking. He gets out of bed, puts on a clean shirt, then heads to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth.

As he descends the stairs, he hears one of his sisters singing along to “Thriller.” Rhino sees him first and runs towards him with his tail wagging excitedly. Zayn scratches behind Rhino’s ear and cuddles him as he looks around the house. He sees Safaa and Waliyha on their usual seats in the dining room, talking excitedly about something as Doniya sets the table. His mom is by the stove, as usual, putting the finishing touches to whatever dish she’s making for breakfast. And then there’s his dad, reorganizing the spice rack because “there’s always something to do, Zayn. Always.”

“Morning,” he greets as he enters the dining room.

Doniya flashes him a soft smile. “Good morning.”

Zayn turns to see Safaa and Waliyha get up to give him a hug. Then he walks over to the kitchen to hug his dad and give his mom a kiss on the cheek.

“Good morning, sonshine,” his mom says, her eyes lighting up as soon as she sees him. She reaches out to place a gentle hand on his cheek. “You okay?”

Zayn flashes her a genuine smile as he nods in reply. He doesn’t have to lie today because he really does feel okay. Zayn knows that the sadness will creep back in at some point, but for now, he feels fine. It’s a good day, and he intends to hold onto that feeling for as long as he can.

His mom gently runs her hand through his hair. “You look good today. I’m glad.” She gives him a kiss on the forehead. “Sit down, love. Breakfast is ready.”

Zayn slings an arm around his dad’s shoulder as they head over to their usual spots on the dining table. Soon, breakfast is served and Zayn looks around to see all six of them gathered together, with Rhino sitting comfortably by his feet. It’s a good day, and everyone’s in a good mood.

 _It’s a good day_ , he thinks. _Please let it stay that way. At least for today._


	3. If You Weren't Real I Would Make You Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Joseph Arthur's "Honey and the Moon."

The little bells chime, as usual, when Zayn opens the door to the bookshop and steps inside. _It feels good to be back_ , he thinks as he steps inside. The smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen wafts in the air and fills him with ease. A Simon & Garfunkel record plays softly while he makes his way to his favorite spot in the back.

There’s a stranger behind the counter where Harry usually sits, which startles him so much that he stumbles as he walks without even tripping over anything. The new guy notices and asks if he’s okay, smiling at him with his sunshine face that makes Zayn smile back despite himself. Zayn flashes him a sheepish smile and assures him that he’s fine before walking the few steps towards the back of the shop. He grabs a random book from one of the shelves and settles on the floor, his eyes darting around the room to see if Harry’s around. Zayn wonders if he’s even in the bookstore at all.

It’s been almost a year since the last time Zayn was in the bookshop, and he worries that he might have missed his chance. Harry may have already moved on to greener pastures – perhaps a new job as a reclusive writer living in a small cottage tucked in the woods. Maybe he’s decided to pack his bags and travel to all the different places he’s only ever read about in books. Or maybe, Harry has finally found his person and is currently living the postcard-perfect life that only ever existed in Zayn’s daydreams.

Maybe in another universe, Zayn could be that for Harry. Maybe in that universe, his daydreams are real and true. Maybe in this universe, Harry’s happy where he is. Maybe in another universe, Zayn is happy, too.

As it is, Zayn’s just Zayn, and he’s still trying to get better everyday.

He thinks he’s doing quite well.

*

Zayn hasn’t always been the most patient person in the world, and his brain has tricked him into thinking that he’s running out of time and wasting his life. But fuck that. Time is fucking relative. He has today, and he’s taking one step at a time, and he’s alive and living, and he’s doing just fine. It took him a while to realize it, but he knows that it’s a long and gradual process towards being okay and getting better and being the best version of himself.

He talks to his family constantly and finds comfort in their company. Zayn knows that he’s fortunate to have the family he has, and he’ll spend a lifetime thinking of ways on how to thank them. He no longer punishes himself for little things that don’t even matter in the long run. Instead, he recognizes his small accomplishments and rewards himself for each one.

Zayn knows that daydreaming was his coping mechanism – he often locked himself in his head-world to escape or comfort his ailing heart. He’s lost decades of his life to daydreaming because it was safer and easier. But now, he’s realized that he no longer needs to slip into his alternate realities because it’s disrupting his life. Talking to his therapist helped. Finding new ways to occupy his brain also made a difference. Sometimes, his mind still wanders. Other times, he feels compelled to disappear. But nobody said it was going to be easy, so he’s learned to be patient and to stop beating himself up over everything.

He seeks refuge in favorite things: a good book, his mom’s samosas, movie marathons with his sisters, his dad’s record collection, Rhino’s cuddles, ice cream, a warm bath. They offer a brief respite and bring him momentary pleasure.

Zayn still sometimes finds solace in a pack of cigarettes and the occasional beer. He knows he needs to quit – and he will – but sometimes he needs something to do, something to help distract him for a few minutes.

Since Zayn decided to abstain from going to the bookstore, he created his own happy place in a tiny apartment that he found with Doniya’s help. Moving out of his parents’ house was a monumental step, but it’s a necessary one towards finding himself and figuring out what he wants to do with his life. It’s his own space, where he gets to be his own person and do his own thing, but it’s also only a few blocks away from his childhood home that he can still come over and spend time with his family whenever he wants.

Every time his parents visit, his mom brings him too much food and his dad checks if there’s something that needs to be fixed. Safaa and Waliyha always stop by after school to hang out with him and ask for his help with their homework. Doniya meets him in front of his house every morning before they go out for a walk, and she regularly visits to check up on him or to just talk.

The house is tiny, but it’s his, and it’s got everything he needs so he never complains. His landlady is a nice old woman named Mira, who looks like his grandmother and has a chocolate Lab called Enid. Zayn asked for Mira’s permission to paint his walls blue and put together a new collage of photos, magazine clippings, literary passages, and some of his old sketches. There’s always a lighter and a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, which also doubles as a dining table. His parents also bought him a couch despite his protests, but it’s so comfortable that he’s fallen asleep on it one too many times. In one corner is a crate of records next to a record player he got from his father. Safaa and Waliyha bought him succulents to line his windowsills, while Doniya got him a comfortable reading chair that sits in the corner next to his makeshift bookshelves.

There’s a kitchen area with limited counter space, a small refrigerator, and his own spice rack courtesy of his parents. He cooks most of his meals now, and he sometimes calls his mom for help with recipes. Zayn even tried his hand at baking and discovered that he’s pretty good at making pies. So he bakes a lot and gives them away to his family or to Mira, who always invites him for tea and a little bit of conversation.

His bathroom is small, but he gets to indulge in warm baths in his own tub and use the wide array of products that Doniya buys for him to help him relax. It’s his favorite thing to do at night – taking a warm bath while reading and listening to music.

In his bedroom is a large window that takes up an entire wall and allows golden rays to spill across his bed and the floorboards. Zayn wakes up with the sun now, just like his parents. But his bed is so comfortable – with his mound of pillows and the quilt that his mom made for him – that sometimes he indulges in a few more hours of sleep. On his bedside table is a lamp, a tumbler of water, and a small pile of books he’s currently reading. In one corner is a wooden desk with a block of colored Post-its and a mug of pens. Zayn also has a clothes rack instead of a closet, and his shoes are lined up on the floor against the wall.

He’s started drawing and painting again. Sometimes, they’re just doodles on scraps of paper or splotches of paint on a canvas. But there are those special moments when he surprises himself with the output, so he displays it on his wall to celebrate his work. Zayn has also started writing again. Most of it are just random scribbles or complete shit, but he just writes anyway because it makes him happy. It’s been a long and creative winter, but he’s glad that he’s brave enough to start creating again.

Zayn is no longer lying when he says he’s fine because he is. Sometimes, he’s even better than fine. Or on some days, fucking fantastic. Yes, the sadness is still there, and it will probably never go away, but he knows how to handle it now. He still has good days and bad days, but the good is often better and the bad isn’t as worse as before. Zayn knows that learning to love himself isn’t easy and that it takes a tonfuck of time and patience. But he’s glad that he has people in his life who continue to love him even when it’s a struggle for him to do so.

So yes, he’s still not done baking yet, but soon he will be. For now, he’s learning to love all of his tiny fragments, until he gets to meet his full self later on.

*

Today is a good day, and it would have been even better if Harry was around. But he’s already here, and he’s missed this place, so Zayn decides to stick around the bookshop for a while. Maybe read a few pages, buy a book or two, then go home, eat a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and wallow.

He’s in the middle of reading his book and scoffing at another terrible metaphor, when he hears someone say, “Hello.” Zayn doesn’t have to look to see who it is. There’s only one person in the world whose dangerously low and raspy voice makes him think of late nights and dark corners, warm honey and glowing embers, sea water and morning blue hours.

Zayn feels the corners of his mouth curve into a soft smile as he looks up from his book to say hello. Harry’s leaning against a shelf while holding a hardbound book with a slice of pie on a plate sitting on top of it. He’s staring at Zayn as he chews on his fork, and a slow curl of his lips spreads into a wide grin that makes his dimples curve in deeper. The full force of his attention makes Zayn’s heart flail about in its ribcage like a trapped bird, and he ducks his head as he feels the blush creeping up the back of his neck.

He hears Harry chuckle before he feels him sliding to the floor to sit next to Zayn, their shoulders brushing as Harry settles into a comfortable position. Harry turns to face him and Zayn returns his gaze, the rest of the world forgotten as the moment lingers. A high-pitched giggle from a little kid running around the shop breaks their spell and forces them to look away from each other.

“You cut your hair,” Zayn says apropos of nothing, his hand itching to reach out and brush away the stray curl on Harry’s forehead.

Harry smiles sheepishly at him. “Yeah. Made my mom happy.”

“Looks good. Somehow it makes you look both younger and older at the same time.”

“Thanks. I see you’ve cut your hair, too.”

“Yeah. Made my mom happy,” Zayn says, which makes Harry laugh. “But then it’s gone through a lot of transformations over the past few months. I’ve actually dyed it several times before shaving it all off. Since then, I’ve pretty much left it alone. I’m growing it out again, I think.”

Harry stares at him with that piercing gaze that should make him uncomfortable if it was anyone else. “Looks good. Did you ever dye your hair pink?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Wish I could have seen that.”

Zayn ducks his head to hide the embarrassing flush on his cheeks. “You weren’t sitting behind the counter when I walked in earlier. Where were you?”

“Oh, I was in the kitchen. I felt a sudden urge to bake, so I asked someone else to man the register for a while.”

“You bake?” Zayn asks.

Harry nods in response. “I used to be a baker, you know.”

“What did you make?”

Harry slides the plate towards Zayn. “A banana cream pie. You want some?”

Zayn takes the fork from Harry’s hand and sinks it into the pie to pull off a bite. He closes his eyes as he tastes it and lets the flavors swirl in his mouth. “Wow. That’s really good.” He pulls off another bite and, without thinking, offers it to Harry.

Harry leans forward and edges his tongue out as he takes the bite with his mouth, humming with pleasure as he tastes it. One side of his mouth quirks up in a teasing smirk as he looks up at Zayn. “That is good.”

Zayn averts his gaze and clears his throat as he leans his head against the shelf and closes his eyes. He hears the bells chime as the front door swings open and catches the tail end of a hushed conversation between two young girls sitting on one of the couches. A new record starts playing just as he feels something warm and fuzzy brush his arm. He opens his eyes and sees an orange cat crawling into the space between him and Harry.

“This is Scout,” Harry says as he gently scratches her on the chin.

Zayn extends his index finger for the cat to sniff. After a few seconds, Scout moves closer and rubs up against him. “Hi, love. It’s nice to meet you.”

“She likes you.”

“I’m glad. I like her, too.”

They lapse into a companionable silence, but Zayn can feel Harry’s eyes on him as he continues to play with Scout. It would be weird if it was anyone else, but somehow he’s gotten used to Harry’s intense stares.

“Where were you?” he hears Harry ask in an almost whisper, as if he’s afraid of interrupting the quiet.

“At home,” Zayn replies easily. “I was going through something, and my family helped me out a lot.”

“Are you okay?”

“I am now, thank you.”

“That’s good.” Harry waits a bit before he asks, “Are you coming back tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Zayn says without looking at Harry, his eyes still trained on the orange cat that has quickly captured his heart.

“Okay.”

Zayn looks up and smiles at Harry before he picks up his book again and lightly runs a hand on the cover.

“That guy uses terrible metaphors,” Harry says, using his fork to point at the book on Zayn’s lap. He sets the fork down on the plate and plucks the book out of Zayn’s hands. “Here, I’ll show you.”

*

Harry’s perched on his desk when Zayn walks into the bookshop the next day. His face lights up when he sees Zayn, and he waves him over to come closer.

“Hi,” Zayn greets with a smile that hasn’t left his face since he saw Harry the previous day.

“Hello.” Harry flashes him a grin before he reaches behind him to grab something. He turns to face Zayn again then hands him a book. “Here. Read this.”

Zayn stares at the cover of Charles Bukowski’s _Love Is a Dog from Hell_ , which he’s been meaning to pick up ever since he saw Harry reading it.

“It’s my own copy, so there are notes everywhere,” Harry says, his eyes cast downwards as if he’s embarrassed. “But they’re written in pencil, so you can just ignore them while you read.”

“I like marginalia.” Zayn leafs through the pages and runs a finger to trace Harry’s notes on the margins. “‘Pardon the egg salad stains, but I’m in love.’”

Harry looks up at him in surprise. “Hey, that’s my favorite Billy Collins poem!”

“Mine, too,” Zayn says with a delighted grin.

“So you’ll read it?”

“I will.”

“And you’ll tell me what you think of it?”

“I promise.”

“Okay. You can head on over to your corner now.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

*

“Here. Read this.”

“A comic book?” Harry asks, as he looks at the cover art.

“It’s my favorite,” Zayn says. “It’s by these Brazilian twins, who have been making a lot of incredible stuff. But this one’s special because it felt like the universe conspired to have me read this at a particular moment in my life when I needed it.” He looks down at his hands and bites his lip to keep from revealing too much too soon. “But yeah, it’s one of my favorite books.”

“Okay, I’ll read it,” Harry says after a beat of silence. “Thank you.”

Zayn steals a glance at Harry and startles at the way he’s staring at him. Feeling a bit self-conscious, he averts his gaze and clears his throat. “So yeah, the story is brilliant and the art is gorgeous. I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

Zayn looks up to sneak a glance at Harry again. There’s a hint of a dimple teasing his cheek as his lips curve up into a soft smile.

“I can’t wait to read it,” Harry says, hugging the book to his chest.

The sight of a beautiful man hugging one of Zayn’s favorite books makes his heart flutter. He bites down on a smile and clears his throat. “I should...” Zayn trails off as he gestures with his thumb towards the back of the store.

Harry nods. “Okay.”

Zayn gives him a small wave before he turns around to head over to his usual spot in the back. He grabs a book from the classics section and settles on the floor to read.

*

“This seat taken?”

Zayn doesn’t have to check to see who it is. He’d know that low and raspy voice anywhere. Zayn scoots over to the left to give Harry some space to sit on his other side. Harry plops down ungracefully beside him on the floor and moves around until he finds a comfortable position.

“Everything okay?” Zayn asks. Harry smiles at him in response, then leans his head against the shelf and closes his eyes. Zayn tries to return to his book, but he ends up reading the same paragraph over and over and  _over_.

It’s just that Harry looks especially good today. Zayn walked into the shop earlier to find him bent over his desk while he talked to somebody on the phone. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt loosely tucked into tight black jeans that almost look painted on, and that’s enough to make him feel faint. But then his hair was swept back with one of those hair clips that he’s seen his sisters use, and how was he supposed to deal with that?

Zayn steals a glance at Harry, who looks peaceful with his eyes still closed. He’s ditched the hair clip, so now there are stray curls hanging down his forehead. His hair looks disheveled, as if he’s been running a hand through it one too many times, but it also looks deliberate, like an artfully styled mess of tousled waves. _An artfully styled mess of tousled waves._ _Ugh, s_ _eriously._

Harry’s unnaturally pink lips, on the other hand, are slightly parted, and well, that’s another story. One that he doesn’t have enough brain function to think about at this moment. He gets a whiff of something delicate and sweet, and Zayn knows that he’s royally fucked.

 _Vanilla and oranges_ , he thinks. Of course he smells like vanilla and oranges. Zayn shakes his head in a desperate attempt to clear it and get his mind to focus. It doesn’t do anything to help, but he pretends to read his book anyway.

“Hey, you can see my desk from here.”

Zayn stills. Harry wasn’t supposed to know that.

“I’ve never really noticed it before.”

“Um, oh, yeah?” Zayn sputters, without looking up from his book. “I don’t think I’ve noticed it before either.”

Harry’s smirking at him when Zayn glances up, but he doesn’t say anything. He leans his head against the shelf again and closes his eyes.

Zayn doesn’t know what that means, but he feels a wave of relief wash over him. He doesn’t think he’s ready to have that conversation yet, so he goes back to his book and reads. Well, he pretends to, at least.

*

“You paint?” Harry asks him after he says hello.

“Uh, yeah, sometimes. Why?”

Harry points at the paint stains on his hand.

Zayn follows his gaze. “Oh. I thought I got it all.”

“What were you painting?”

“I honestly don’t know yet,” Zayn says with a laugh. “But it’s fun. And it calms me down.”

Harry stands up and perches on the edge of his desk. “Maybe you can do one for me someday.”

“What, like, you want me to paint you?” Zayn stammers.

“Zayn, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls,” Harry says, voice dropping to a dangerously low pitch that reverberates through Zayn’s chest.

Visions of creamy skin and black ink and Leonardo DiCaprio’s hair –  _because ‘90s Leo was something else_ _–_ flood through his brain and render him speechless.

Harry interrupts his thoughts with a low, rumbling chuckle. “I’m kidding. I just meant like something to add to my collection.” He gestures towards the artwork displayed on the wall.

Zayn exhales a laugh. “Right. Got it. Sure, no problem.”

“I like your glasses.”

“Thanks.”

“They make you look like a hot professor,” Harry says with a teasing smirk.

Zayn feels his cheeks flush. “What? No.”

“Yes.”

“Do you wear glasses?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well–” Zayn pushes his glasses up his nose by the bridge and spectacularly misses, accidentally getting a fingerprint on the lens. He groans and lets out an embarrassed chuckle. Zayn removes his glasses and uses the hem of his shirt to wipe off the lenses. “Sorry, I–” Zayn starts to say, but he gets cut off by Harry’s abrupt laughter.

Zayn looks up to see Harry bent over at the waist with his arm clutching his stomach. His cheeks turn crimson when Harry glances at him and starts laughing again. He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at Harry while he waits for him to calm down.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says around the end of his laughter.

“I’m glad you found that amusing,” Zayn mutters.

“It was the cutest, most adorable thing I’ve seen today.”

“Shut up.”

“I will not.”

“Well you’re the cutest, most adorable thing I’ve seen today,” Zayn retorts, which effectively shuts Harry up. He flashes him a smug grin before he turns around to make his way towards his usual spot in the back. Once he’s settled on the floor, he sneaks a glance at Harry, who is already looking at him with a shit-eating grin. Zayn shakes his head as he leans against the shelf and opens his book.

*

“Zayn!”

“Hey, Harry.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m good.”

“What’s that?”

“I baked another pie. You want some?”

“Sure.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Coffee and pie, oh my!”

“You know what, I think I’m good.”

“Hey, no, come back!”

*

“Why did you decide to open a bookshop?” Zayn asks.

“I didn’t,” Harry says carefully. “It’s my stepfather’s. He died a couple of years ago, so I just took over from him.”

Zayn winces and chastises himself internally. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Harry smiles sadly at him. “No, it’s fine. He was a good man, and he lived a happy life.”

Zayn doesn’t know what to say so he keeps quiet. His hand twitches as if to reach out and place a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry must notice because he extends a hand to briefly squeeze Zayn’s shoulder in reassurance, as if he’s the one who needs comforting.

“I did name the shop, though.”

“Yeah? Because I meant to tell you that I really like it. It’s clever.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you really?”

The snort escapes Harry’s lips before he can manage to school his features. “I wish.”

Zayn shoves him playfully. “I knew it. Who named it then?”

“Robin,” Harry says with a wistful smile. “He’s very clever. Mine were all just awful puns.”

“What were your suggestions?”

“My favorite was Go Big Or Go Homer.”

Zayn snorts, which makes Harry chuckle with delight. Harry’s face lights up as he giggles – bright and loud and open and carefree. Zayn’s heart flutters as the sound of Harry’s laughter fills the air.

 _This must be what the color yellow sounds like,_ Zayn thinks. He looks at Harry’s delighted face, and he can’t help the way his lips curve up into a soft smile. Zayn bites on his lip to keep from smiling too wide when Harry catches him staring, ducking his head for a second to hide the flush on his cheeks. He looks up and meets Harry’s gaze – his green eyes glinting with unbridled glee and impossibly pink lips curled into a slow smile that softens his features.

“You okay?” Zayn asks.

“Yeah.” Harry replies.

*

Harry’s eating butter cookies when Zayn walks into the bookshop. He watches him read his book as he dips a cookie into a mug of what he hopes is some sort of hot drink like coffee or hot chocolate. Harry accidentally drops the cookie into the mug and yelps in surprise. He scoops out the softened cookie with his fingers, puts it in his mouth, then goes back to his book as if nothing happened.

 _Wow,_ Zayn thinks. _I’m in love with a goober._

He stills when he realizes what just crossed his mind. _Love? Is that what this is?_ He shakes his head vehemently. _No. Absolutely not. I don’t have time for that shit._

Zayn steals a glance at Harry, who is munching on another cookie. There are crumbs on the corner of his mouth, and Zayn notices a small, dark stain on the collar of his white shirt. He glances up to find Zayn looking at him and widens his eyes in surprise. Harry wipes off the cookie crumbs with the back of his hand and smiles sheepishly at him. “Cookie?” he offers, thrusting the tin can of cookies in his direction.

_Yep, I’m in love with a goober._

Zayn walks towards the counter, notices a stray crumb on the left corner of Harry’s mouth, and, without thinking, reaches over to brush it away.

“Oh,” Harry says, his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. “Thank you.”

_Fuck._

*

“Here.” Zayn says, sliding Harry’s copy of _Love Is a Dog from Hell_ on his desk.

“You’ve read it?” Harry asks, and Zayn nods in response. “And?”

“I liked it,” Zayn tells him. “I’ve always preferred his poems over his novels anyway, but this collection was really good.”

Harry hugs the book to his chest. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“There’s always an underlying sadness to his poetry despite all the brashness and the filthiness and the macho shit.”

“I know exactly what you mean. And it’s why I always get shit for reading Bukowski. But I love the way he uses language. He tells it like it is, but it’s his diction that makes the poems come alive. Yes, it’s raw and gritty and abrasive, but there’s also something romantic about his poetry.”

“If I were a braver man and he was still alive today, I would sit next to him in a bar and just keep him company,” Zayn says. “But I’m not, and he’s an asshole, so I won’t.”

“‘And yeah, I know he’s a pretty good read. But God who’d want to be such an asshole?’” Harry sings.

Zayn chuckles. “A Modest Mouse reference, nice.”

“Thanks,” Harry says with a grin. “But yeah, he really was an asshole.”

“What was your favorite poem from the book?”

“‘An Almost Made Up Poem.’ Yours?”

“‘The Crunch.’”

“What did you like about it?”

“How sad it was but not completely devoid of hope.”

“Do you remember your favorite line?”

Zayn holds up one finger then fishes out a tiny notebook from his back pocket. He leafs through it until he finds the page he’s looking for and reads: _“there is a loneliness in this world so great / that you can see it in the slow movement of / the hands of a clock.”_

“ _people so tired / mutilated / either by love or no love,”_ Harry continues. He jerks his chin towards Zayn’s notebook. “I love that you wrote it down.”

Zayn smiles sheepishly at him. “Yeah. I tend to forget things. But I don’t know, it just hit home for me.”

Harry stares at him again with that intense way that used to make Zayn squirm. There’s a hint of fondness in his gaze and something else that Zayn can’t decipher.

“So um, thanks for letting me borrow it,” Zayn says to divert Harry’s attention.

A gradual curl of Harry’s lips spreads into a soft smile. “You’re welcome.”

*

“Here,” Harry says as he plops down on the floor next to Zayn.

He takes the comic book from Harry and raises an eyebrow at him. “Well?” Zayn closes his book and sets it aside carefully so as not to wake Scout, who’s asleep on his lap.

Harry crosses his arms and furrows his eyebrows, which he probably means to be threatening but actually only makes him look like a disgruntled baby lion. “I hate you.”

Zayn snorts. “I know. I’m sorry.” Harry glares at him, which makes Zayn laugh. “Did you cry?”

“So much,” Harry says with a dramatic sigh. “I was practically catatonic, Zayn. Catatonic!”

Zayn chuckles softly. “I was, too. But it’s beautiful, right?”

Harry clutches at his chest. “It was so beautiful. But so sad. Made me reevaluate my life.”

“Reading it was cathartic, though.”

“It really was. And you were right about the art. Everything’s so gorgeous.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Zayn says.

Harry smiles at him. “I loved it. It was beautiful. And I wouldn’t have known about it if it hadn’t been for you, so thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Made me think about you, though,” Harry says quietly.

“How so?” Zayn asks.

Harry shrugs. “Just something you said before. How the universe conspired to have you read it when you needed it. Just made me wonder what you meant by that.”

“Oh.”

“You’re okay, right?”

“I am. I wasn’t before, but I am now.”

“Okay. But if you need to talk–” Harry cuts himself off and bites his lip as he resolutely avoids looking at Zayn.

“I know,” Zayn says. “Thank you.”

Harry looks up to smile at him before reaching out to gently pet Scout, who’s still asleep on Zayn’s lap. “Wow, she really likes you.”

“I love her, and I want to keep her.”

Harry flashes him a grin that’s wide enough for his dimples to appear. “Maybe next time you can recommend something light-hearted?”

Zayn smirks. “So no to _A Little Life_ then?”

“Oh God, no,” Harry says with another dramatic sigh. “That book fucking broke me, okay? I can’t go through all of that again. My heart can’t take it.”

Zayn’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Yeah, that was a harrowing experience. Beautiful book, though.”

Harry nods in agreement. “I like this,” he says after a beat of silence.

“What, talking about books?”

“Talking about books with you.”

“Oh.”

“Just talking with you, really.” Harry sneaks a glance at Zayn before ducking his head in embarrassment.

Zayn’s heart flutters, and he can’t help the way his lips curl up into a delighted grin. “I feel the same way.”

*

And so it goes.

Zayn comes into the bookshop, as always, and heads to his usual corner in the back. Harry joins him a few hours later to talk, or argue, or sit together in silence. Sometimes Scout hangs out with them, but most of the time it’s just Zayn and Harry in their own little world.

The first time he sees Harry outside of the bookshop is while he’s out with his sisters on a Sunday afternoon. Doniya, Waliyha, and Safaa stopped by for pie and a movie at his apartment, and it’s as he’s walking them back to their parents’ house that he sees him.

Harry’s alone and dressed in a floral button-up shirt, black jeans, and brown suede boots as he saunters slowly down the street. His hair is pushed back by a pair of sunglasses, and his ringed fingers are wrapped around a pink phone. It’s almost surreal to see him outside, as if he’s just stepped right out of a movie scene and into Zayn’s strange reality.

“He’s stopped functioning,” Zayn hears Safaa say.

“Is that him?” Waliyha asks. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Safaa replies.

Waliyha nods appreciatively. “Wow. Well done, Zayn.”

Doniya chuckles softly before nudging him on the shoulder. “You want to say hi?”

Zayn doesn’t say anything but continues to stare at Harry as he slowly walks towards them. He doesn’t think Harry’s noticed them yet.

“Or do you want to hide?” Doniya whispers.

It’s then that Harry notices them standing a few feet away from him. His eyes light up as soon as he sees Zayn.

“Too late, he’s coming over here,” Doniya says in a rush. “You okay? Breathe, babe.”

Zayn hears Safaa and Waliyha giggling behind him, but he doesn’t pay them any attention because Harry’s suddenly standing in front of him with one of those bright smiles that could blind someone someday.

“Hi! Fancy meeting you here.”

“Uh, yeah, hi,” Zayn stammers, which only makes Waliyha and Safaa giggle even more. “You remember Doniya?”

Harry turns to Doniya and flashes her a smile. “Yes, it’s nice to see you again.”

“You, too,” Doniya says with a delighted grin.

Zayn reaches behind him and tugs on his sisters’ hands. “And these little monsters are Safaa and Waliyha.”

“Hello,” Harry greets them.

“I like your shirt,” Waliyha says shyly.

“Thanks!” Harry says with a grin, his dimples on full display.

“Is the bookshop closed?” Zayn blurts out. “Is everything okay?”

Harry chuckles. “Everything’s fine. I left someone else in charge for now.”

“Oh. Where’d you go?” Zayn asks, wincing as he hears how curious he sounds.

“My sister’s in town, so we had lunch at my mom’s house,” Harry replies. “What about you? Where are you off to?”

“Home,” Safaa answers for him. “He’s just walking us home because he’s the best big brother ever.”

“He really is,” Waliyha adds.

The snort escapes Doniya’s lips before she can stop herself, much to Zayn’s annoyance. She quickly covers her mouth with her hand as if she can take it back and undo the damage.

Zayn hates his sisters. He really does.

“Speaking of home, you should go back to yours,” Doniya says to him. “We’ll be fine.”

“But–” Zayn starts to say, but he’s cut off by Safaa.

“You should show Harry your house.” Safaa turns to Harry with a sweet smile. “It’s not far from here, and there’s still some pie left. Did you know that he bakes?”

“No, I didn’t,” Harry says with a teasing smirk.

“He’s really good,” Waliyha says. “You should come over and see for yourself.”

“Shut up,” Zayn hisses. He lets out an exasperated sigh before sneaking a glance at Harry. Zayn startles when he sees him looking at him with a fond expression on his face. He scratches the back of his neck and flashes him a sheepish smile. “Sorry about them.”

Harry chuckles softly. “No, it’s fine. But now I am curious about that pie.”

Doniya snorts. “We’re leaving now.” She turns to face Harry and smiles at him. “It was nice to see you again, Harry.”

Harry steps forward to give her a hug. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

“Can I get a hug, too?” Safaa asks, her arms already open in invitation.

Harry beams at her before leaning forward to hug her. “You are absolutely adorable,” he says, which makes Safaa giggle. Harry turns to Waliyha, who is hiding behind Zayn. “Is it okay if I hug you, too?”

Waliyha steps out from behind Zayn and nods shyly at Harry, who opens his ridiculously long arms for a hug.

“What about you?” Harry asks Zayn with a teasing smirk. “You want a hug, too?”

His sisters burst out laughing, and he glares at all of them. “I thought you were leaving?”

“Fine, fine, we’re going,” Doniya says around the end of her laughter. She gives him a kiss on the cheek before she whispers, “You’ll be fine. He likes you, I can tell.”

Safaa and Waliyha take turns giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek before they’re waving goodbye.

Harry stands quietly next to Zayn as they watch his sisters leave. “So...”

“Sorry about them,” Zayn says with an apologetic smile.

Harry grins at him. “I like your sisters.”

A surge of warmth spreads throughout Zayn’s body. “They seem to like you, too.”

Harry ducks his head for a second before looking up at him with a soft smile. “I’m glad.”

“So...” Zayn trails off. “You want some pie?”

“Yes, please,” Harry says with a delighted grin.

“Come on, then.” Zayn leads the way towards his house, and Harry falls into step beside him.

*

The thing is, it’s not even remotely awkward having Harry in his house. Maybe it’s because they’ve been hanging out for a while now that they’ve grown accustomed to each other’s proximity. Or maybe it’s because Harry’s just Harry, and his very presence fills Zayn with ease. There’s just something about him that feels familiar, as if they’ve known each other in a past life and are now just picking up where they left off.

Harry picks his way through Zayn’s apartment – green eyes taking everything in and hands touching everything he sees. Zayn loves the different facial expressions Harry makes as he tries to catalog everything he learns about Zayn just from his quiet observation. Harry coos when he sees Rhino, crouching down to slowly extend a hand for him to nose at and giggling when Rhino starts to lick it. He scrunches his nose at the half-empty pack of cigarettes on the coffee table and shakes his head at the paint-splattered shirts thrown in one corner. Harry smiles when he sees the succulents on display and takes his time saying hello to each one. His face lights up when he sees a photo of Zayn and his sisters when they were little kids, and he lightly runs a finger on their smiling faces.

He looks utterly rapt as he takes in the collage on the wall, his hand carefully touching every piece as if it will make him understand Zayn better. Harry turns to him with a soft smile before crouching down to flick through his record collection. He selects an album and stands up to show it off to Zayn, raising his eyebrows to ask for permission to play it. Zayn just smiles at him and nods.

“I haven’t listened to Chet Baker in a while,” Harry says as he carefully slides out the vinyl from its sleeve and puts it on the record player. He closes his eyes as the first song begins to play. “I don’t know why, but I always listen to jazz on Sundays.”

“I do that, too,” Zayn tells him. “Mostly Sunday mornings and whiskey nights.”

“What do you listen to on a whiskey kind of night?”

“A lot of Coltrane and Thelonious Monk.”

“Got it.”

Harry sings along to the song as he continues to pick his way through the room. Zayn stays where he is, standing with his back against the wall, watching as Harry leaves traces of himself everywhere in his house. His hair is a wild mess now that his sunglasses are tucked away in his chest pocket. Zayn watches as Harry brushes aside a wayward curl that falls across his forehead, only for it to fall back into place as if letting him know that it belongs there.

There’s an unfinished painting on an easel that catches Harry’s eye, and his hand twitches as if to reach out and touch it. He doesn’t, which probably took a lot of self-restraint on his part, but he does trip over a paint-splattered cloth on the floor. Harry turns to look at Zayn and flashes him a sheepish smile. Then he plops down on the floor to look at the neatly stacked books and gently run a hand along the spines.

“I love this book,” Harry says.

“Which one?” Zayn asks.

“ _Howl’s Moving Castle._ ” Harry turns his head towards Zayn. "It was my favorite book when I was a kid. Still is one of my favorite books to this day.”

“That’s what I was reading on my first day at the bookshop,” Zayn says quietly. “I needed something familiar to calm me down, so I grabbed  _Howl’s Moving Castle_ because it was a childhood favorite. When I looked up, I saw that you were reading the same thing.” He holds Harry’s gaze for a few seconds before shrugging his shoulders and looking away. “I don’t know, it felt like I was in the right place. Like I was supposed to be there. It’s silly, I know, but it seemed like my favorite book was recommending a person.”

Harry places a hand on his chest and mouths, “Me?” with a delighted expression on his face.

Zayn rolls his eyes at him. “Yes, you.”

A slow curl of Harry’s lips spreads into a smile that’s wide enough for his dimples to come out of hiding. His smile remains even as he stares at Zayn in that intense way that almost feels like he’s looking right through his soul.

Zayn, unable to take his eyes off Harry and feeling braver than he has in a while, stares right back.

“I noticed you, you know,” Harry admits quietly, as if he’s afraid of ruining the moment.

“Which time?”

“All the time.”

“Right.”

“It’s true. I wanted to talk to you that first night. But you looked exhausted, and I didn’t want to bother you, so I just smiled at you then went back to my book. Every time you came in, you looked tired or sad or both. I didn’t want to scare you off, so I just left you alone.”

“I’m sorry if I seemed like an asshole.”

“No, you just looked like you needed a place to breathe.”

“I did.”

“Well, I’m glad that my little bookshop helped.”

“You did, too.”

“How?” Harry asks.

Zayn bites down on a smile and shrugs in lieu of a response.

*

They sit on the couch and share a slice of pie. Then Harry’s saying goodbye, and that’s that.

It’s not until Zayn is lying in bed that he notices how he hasn’t stopped smiling since Harry left. How his heart didn’t feel like a hummingbird trapped in its cage even when Harry’s arm accidentally grazed his. How easy it was to see Harry in his space when he’s always had trouble letting people in. How he doesn’t even remember what they talked about, only how he felt. How this sliver of happiness was enough to thaw the frozen block of ice lodged inside his chest. How all the unspoken words and sentiments drifted between them. How his very presence quelled his disquiet. How, for the first time in ages, Zayn’s actually looking forward to days ahead.

*

The next day, Harry offers him a can of Coke.

They’re sitting on the floor with their legs outstretched and their backs against a shelf of reference books in the back of the bookstore.

“This is like that Frank O’Hara poem,” Zayn says without thinking.

Harry turns crimson and ducks his head to hide his smile.

Zayn catches it anyway, tilting his head in thought and eyes widening in realization. “Oh.”

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

“Do you know Rembrandt’s The Polish Rider?” Harry asks with a cheeky grin.

Zayn chuckles softly. “I know of it, but I haven’t seen it in person yet.”

“Maybe we can see it together sometime.”

“I’d like that.”

“Zayn?”

“Harry?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?”

“I’d love to.”

Harry blushes a pretty shade of pink, and he doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. “Okay. That’s good. We can just meet here around seven, if that’s okay with you.”

Zayn bites on a smile as he nods in response.

They stay like that for a while, sharing a drink and relishing each other’s company. It’s easy to forget that there’s a whole other world outside of their little corner. That it continues to spin even when it seems like it stops when they’re looking at each other. But somehow they do, because they would rather sit together in silence than waste hours with anyone else.

“That’s one of my favorite poems, you know,” Zayn says.

“Mine, too.” Harry turns his head to the side to look at Zayn. “You know what plays in my head every time I read it?”

Zayn shakes his head. “What?”

Harry flashes him a wide grin before he starts singing, “‘Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? Just like me, they long to be close to you.’”

Zayn exhales a laugh before he joins in. “‘Why do stars fall down from the sky every time you walk by? Just like me, they long to be close to you.’”

The fond smile that Harry gives him makes his heart flutter, and the rest of the world disappears. It’s just the two of them again in their own little world, the tantalizing possibilities of tomorrow drifting in the empty air between them.

*

Doniya shrieks in his ear when he tells her about the date over the phone.

“I think my ear is bleeding.”

“ _Shut up. Where is he taking you?”_

“I don’t know. He just told me to meet him in the bookshop.”

“ _What are you going to wear?”_

“I don’t know yet.”

“ _Are you nervous?”_

“A little.”

“ _But you’re okay, right?”_

“I am.”

“ _Do you want me to come over?”_

“You could if you want to. But if you’re asking because you’re worried about me, then you don’t have to. I’m okay, I promise. You don’t have to worry about me so much.”

“ _Okay. As long as you promise to call me right after. I want details.”_

“You got it.”

“ _And get him something nice, okay?”_

“I will.”

“ _Love you, Zayn.”_

“Love you.”

*

The sign says closed when Zayn gets to the bookshop. Harry’s waiting for him outside, leaning against the wall and fiddling with his phone. He must sense Zayn’s presence because he looks up and flashes him a smile that’s bright enough to light up the entire neighborhood.

“Hi,” Zayn greets as he stands next to him.

“Hello.” Harry eyes the box in Zayn’s hands. “What’s that?”

“Dessert,” Zayn replies easily.

“You made dessert? But I’m supposed to be the one impressing you tonight.”

“I will still be impressed, I promise.” Zayn gestures towards the sign on the door. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it closed this early until now.”

“Well, it’s a special occasion,” Harry says with a cheeky grin. “So, ready?”

“Where are we going?” Zayn asks.

“You’ll see.” Harry opens the door to the bookstore and gestures for Zayn to step inside.

The bookshop is cloaked in darkness, but Harry doesn’t bother to turn on any lights. It’s quiet save for a car passing in the distance and their feet shuffling on the hardwood floors. Harry takes his hand and leads him to the staircase.

“You know, I’ve always wondered where these stairs lead,” Zayn whispers.

“Well, now you’re about to find out,” Harry whispers back. He leads them up the stairs and stops in front of a wooden door. Harry opens it and gestures with a dramatic flourish. “After you.”

Zayn steps inside and looks around in awe. “You live here?”

“Yes,” Harry says as he closes the door. “I moved in after I took over from Robin. This used to be the storage area, but I converted it into an apartment. It’s not much, but it’s mine.”

The place is not much larger than Zayn’s apartment, but it’s warm and cozy and so very Harry.

“I like it,” Zayn tells him as he follows him to the kitchen.

“Thanks.” Harry grabs the box from Zayn and places it inside the fridge. “You want some wine?”

“Yes, please,” Zayn says, fingers drumming against the counter. His eyes travel across the room, taking everything in, and seeing glimpses of Harry everywhere.

Harry walks towards him while holding two wine glasses and offers one to Zayn. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Zayn takes a sip of his drink before gesturing towards the framed photographs on the wall. “Your mom and sister?”

“Yes,” Harry says with a soft smile. “That’s Robin, and those are my godchildren.”

“You have a beautiful family.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

Zayn sets his wine glass down on the coffee table and turns to face Harry. “I wanted to say thanks for inviting me to dinner. I’ve been meaning to ask you out for a while now, but I didn’t know how because I’m an idiot about these things. So yeah, thanks.”

Harry sets his glass down on the table and reaches out to hold Zayn’s hand. A grin curls at the corner of his mouth as he says, “You’re not an idiot. I think you’re all kinds of wonderful. And I’m really happy that you’re here.”

Zayn ducks his head as he feels the tips of his ears burning at the compliment. He looks at their clasped hands and interlocked fingers while thoughts race around his head.

_Why is he holding my hand? Also, thank you, universe. But what do I do now? I might hurt him if I hold on too tight. Or maybe he’ll think I’m a clingy bastard. But a loose grasp might make him think that I don’t want to hold his hand. And I really, really want to hold his hand. Fuck, his hand is really soft. And it’s way bigger than mine. Nope, don’t think about that. Not thinking about it. Things that are horrible: abandoned animals, people killing, people dying, children hurt and you hear them crying. Why am I quoting a Black Eyed Peas song? Now it’s stuck in my head. Great. I should have put on some lotion or something. Or would that have made my hand greasy? Is my hand clammy? I’m a bit nervous so maybe it is? I can’t tell. I think my hand has gone numb._

Zayn sneaks a glance at Harry, who’s looking at him like he hung the moon and the stars and the paintings in this room and the spiders from Mars. He doesn’t think he deserves that look. Or his attention. If people were gems, Harry is a pink star diamond and he, a speck of dust. But here he is, holding Zayn’s hand like it’s precious. Gazing at him with a smile so soft, so gentle, so sincere. Zayn’s forgotten what genuine happiness feels like, but he thinks that maybe it’s this, here, now, with him.

*

There’s a wide array of mismatched velvet embroidered pillows on Harry’s couch, and Zayn loves every single one. He picks the green cushion with tiger embroidery and hugs it to his chest as he watches Harry open a window to let the cool night air into the room. Harry walks back towards the couch and sits on the other end, leaving some space between them.

They made their way to the living room after they’ve polished off their plates, finished their bottle of wine, and ate half of the chocolate cream pie that Zayn brought for dessert. Zayn offered to do the dishes, and Harry sat on top of the kitchen counter to keep him company and tell him silly stories about his godchildren.

Now, their wine glasses are full again, and they’re nestled against Harry’s fancy throw pillows as they sneak glances at each other while an old song plays on the record player.

Silence settles over them as the music fades, and the only sounds in the apartment are the hissing and crackling of the vinyl record playing out its grooves at the end of the album. Harry’s fingers drift in the space between them, inching closer to Zayn’s hand. He turns to Zayn with a sheepish smile that shifts into something a little softer, a little warmer, as Zayn returns his gaze. Feeling a little bit braver, Zayn closes the distance between their hands and curls his fingers loosely around Harry’s.

They stay like that for a while, relishing the quiet as they hold hands. Harry scoots closer to Zayn, lifting their clasped hands to lightly press a kiss to Zayn’s knuckles before placing them carefully on his lap.

A moment passes, and Zayn hears himself asking, “Can I kiss you?” before he can stop himself. Harry turns to face him and nods in reply.

Zayn slowly leans forward to press a soft kiss to Harry’s lips, but he spectacularly misses by less than an inch, much to his horror and dismay. He ends up pressing a kiss to Harry’s chin then tries to pretend that it was his intention all along as he pulls away. Zayn reluctantly glances at Harry, who’s staring at him with eyes wide and lips parted in delighted surprise. Harry exhales a laugh then slowly falls into a fit of giggles, his eyes shutting and his shoulders shaking.

“Shut up,” Zayn mutters.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says around the end of his laughter. “You want to try that again?”

A slow smile curls at the corner of Zayn’s mouth as he nods in response. Harry moves to straddle his thighs, and Zayn’s hands automatically wrap around Harry’s waist.

“Hi,” Harry says with a cheeky grin as his hands settle on the back of Zayn’s neck.

Zayn lifts a hand and places it gently on Harry’s cheek. “Hello.” He watches while Harry turns his head into it, closing his eyes as he feels the warmth of Zayn’s palm against his skin.

A gentle smile falls onto Harry’s lips just as his eyes flutter open. Zayn feels the corners of his mouth curve up just at the sight of it.

They kiss for the first time just as it starts to rain, though neither of them notices.

*

That night, as they move together with surprising ease, as their palms catch fire with every touch, as they turn into a tangled mess of rainbows, as they fill up the spaces with kisses and sighs, Harry cradles his face and looks at him with a smile so heartbreakingly gentle that Zayn melts with it and comes apart at the thought of it, the thought of him, here, now, tomorrow, everyday, everywhere, everywhen, just him, only him, _Harry Harry Harry_.

*

Zayn’s eyes flutter open the next day as sunbeams bleed through the gap in the curtains and settle in warm patches across his back. He can’t help the curl of his lips as soon as he sees Harry – still asleep and holding Zayn’s hand against his chest. Zayn tries to gently pull his hand away from his grasp, but Harry mumbles something indecipherable and doesn’t let go.

With his free hand, Zayn brushes away the stray curls on Harry’s forehead and lightly runs a finger down the side of his face. Zayn bites on a smile as he watches Harry’s lips quirk before he squints sleepy eyes against the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Good morning,” Harry greets, his voice deeper and raspier than usual. He scoots closer so he can press his face against Zayn’s chest.

Zayn wraps an arm around his waist and kisses the top of his head. “Morning.” He feels Harry press a kiss to his throat and mumble something against his skin. “What?”

Harry giggles as he pulls away to look at him. “I asked if you wanted some breakfast.”

Zayn stares at him – the dust of sleep still in his eyes, pillow creases on his cheek, and hair a tangled mess on his head – and thinks _fuck, he’s beautiful._ He looks at Harry, and his chest quakes with sheer contentment. Zayn is overwhelmed with want and bliss and every fucking terrifying emotion that his ribcage is just about ready to burst open.

Maybe happiness is this. But Zayn’s still Zayn, and he can’t ignore the twinge of dread at the thought of it being snatched away from him, of waking up and realizing that it’s all a dream, of finding out that Harry’s gone.

Zayn looks away as he feels tears prickle in the corners of his eyes.

“Hey, what is it?” Harry asks gently. “Why are your eyes so sad?”

Zayn just shakes his head and buries his face in Harry’s neck, annoyed and embarrassed at himself for ruining a perfect morning.

Harry doesn’t force him to talk. Instead, he kisses Zayn’s temple and runs his fingers through his hair. His touch is so gentle that it almost makes him want to cry, but Zayn chooses to focus on the movement to distract him from his thoughts. After a while, he brushes his lips against the side of Harry’s neck before he pulls away to look at him.

“You okay?” Harry asks, and Zayn nods in reply. “Will you tell me about it?”

Zayn lightly presses a kiss to Harry’s lips. “I will. Just not right now. Is that okay?”

Harry smiles at him. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk.”

Zayn leans in for another kiss, and he feels Harry’s smile against his mouth. “Thank you.”

Harry rolls onto his back and stretches his ridiculously long arms over his head as he yawns audibly. “Breakfast?”

“You want me to make you something?” Zayn asks as he scoots closer to settle an arm around Harry’s waist. He smirks when he sees Harry’s impossibly pink lips stretch into a smile that’s wide enough for his dimples to come out of hiding. “So that’s a yes?”

“Yes,” Harry says. He kisses him on the forehead before he holds him tightly against his chest. “Five more minutes.”

Zayn looks up to press a soft kiss against his jaw. “Okay.”

*

“ _So? How was it?”_

“It was perfect.”

“ _Better than anything you’ve daydreamed about?”_

“Infinitely better than anything my twisted brain could ever cook up.”

“ _Yeah?”_

“Yeah. It’s real.”

*

Zayn wakes up to a Michael Jackson song and for the briefest of moments, he thinks he’s back at home with his parents. He smiles when he hears Harry singing along to “Baby Be Mine” with as much fervor as he does most things.

Ever since Zayn told him about his dad playing _Thriller_ every morning, Harry insisted on doing the same thing to continue the tradition. It makes his heart swell with affection for this ridiculous boy, who always feels like home.

He spends most of his days with Harry in the bookshop – sometimes sitting with him behind the counter or hiding in his corner. They talk a lot about random things and important things and silly things and favorite things. Things that they’ve learned, dreamed about, feared the most.

Sometimes Zayn catches him in quiet, intimate moments, and he can’t help but feel an enormous tenderness for him that his heart bursts and aches with it. Like when he takes a long sip of his drink and hums with pleasure. Or when he chews on his bottom lip as he writes. When he gets lost in a song. Or when he sees a baby and he can’t contain his smile.

Zayn likes to rest the side of his head against Harry’s back while he reads, running a finger over the bare skin under his shirt as he listens to his steady breathing. Sometimes, Harry stops whatever he’s doing to hug him from the back and bury his face in his neck, breathing him in for a moment before he pulls away to go back to his work.

He likes it when they spend nights just talking or watching a movie or drinking wine until it’s so late that it’s early, and they struggle out of their clothes and into bed, and they mumble half-formed sentences in each other’s necks until finally, their breathing evens out and they fall asleep.

Mornings always begin with delicious fun and ends with a satisfied relish, sometimes even before the sun makes its appearance. They take turns cooking for each other, and they take walks together, and they go out on dates, and they bask in the pleasure of each other’s company.

And they kiss. A lot. In bed, on the couch, against the wall, in a street corner, on the floor, in the tub, under a hot shower. And they touch. Everywhere. Every time. And they crash into each other, and set themselves on fire, and leave marks everywhere like breadcrumbs leading them home.

Zayn gets up, sneaks behind Harry, and snakes his arms around his waist. He smiles against the side of his neck and presses a kiss under his jaw. Zayn feels Harry take a breath before he’s turning around in his arms to face him, drink him in, greet him with a smile and a kiss.

He looks at him, and he knows that he’s the luckiest person in the world. That he always has been. And he always will be. Zayn looks at Harry, and he knows. That happiness is this: here, now, with him.

*

Harry finds him sitting in the dark while a John Coltrane track plays on the record player. Zayn is on the floor, with his legs outstretched and his back against the couch, a drink in hand and Rhino by his side.

“Whiskey night?” Harry asks as he sits next to him.

Zayn nods and kisses him on the cheek. “Want some?”

Harry gulps down the rest of Zayn’s drink before refilling the glass and offering it to him. He cups his cheek with one hand and gently strokes his thumb along the line of his cheekbone. “You okay?”

“I am now,” Zayn says, turning his head to press a kiss onto Harry’s palm. “How was your day?”

Sometimes, that’s all it takes. Zayn listens as Harry tells him his stories, and everything else melts away. They sit in the dark, share a drink, touch, kiss, breathe. The fact of him so warm and so close makes Zayn feel a little less lonely, a little less lost. He rests his head against Harry’s shoulder and drifts off to the soothing sound of his voice.

*

Zayn has good days and bad days, and today is a particularly bad one. He’s been awake for 48 hours now, and he feels like shit. Zayn knows that he should get up from his bed and do something, anything, but for some unknown fucking reason, he just can’t. Everything is terrible, and he’s not okay, because he thought he was getting better, but here he is, back on his bullshit again.

To top it all off, he hasn’t seen Harry in three days. He feels guilt boiling low on his stomach as he thinks of Harry and how worried he must be. But Zayn doesn’t know what to say or how to even begin to explain it all to him. He knows it’s a lot to take in, and he knows that Harry can handle it, but mostly he’s terrified of what Harry will think of him once he learns the truth.

So he doesn’t do anything.

Doniya calls everyday to check up on him, but this time, he lies to save her the trouble. It makes him feel shitty, but he knows he’ll be okay soon. He just has to get through today. One more day. If it gets worse, he swears he’ll let Doniya know. He swears he’ll let Harry know.

For now, he stays where he is – lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and wishing for the ground to open up, swallow him whole, and end his misery.

His heart jumps when he hears a series of soft knocks on his front door.

“Zayn?” he hears Harry call out – his voice gentle but laced with worry.

He feels terrible for subjecting Harry to this kind of horror, so he gets out of bed and uses up every ounce of energy he has left to run to the front door and open it.

“Hi,” Harry says quietly. “Are you okay?”

A subdued smile falls onto Zayn’s lips, but it fails to reach his eyes. He rubs a hand at his chest, as if it will help stave off the pain. Zayn feels the stinging threat of tears in the corners of his eyes as he slowly shakes his head.

Harry rushes forward to hug him, and Zayn’s body slumps against his. Zayn muffles his sobs against his shoulder, and Harry just lets him.

*

That night, as Harry carries him to his room and gently puts him down on the bed, as he slides under the covers and scoots closer to Zayn so they’re pressed together, as he rubs comforting circles on his back and sings softly in his ear, Zayn’s heart begins to settle, and finally, he falls into a dreamless sleep.

When he wakes up a few hours later, Harry’s lightly running his fingers across Zayn’s cheek. A gradual curl of his lips spreads into a soft smile, but Zayn can still see the worry behind his eyes.

“Hi. How do you feel?”

“Better, thank you,” Zayn assures him. “And I’m sorry for making you worry. I just get like this sometimes, and it’s not easy, but I’m trying. I promise, I’m trying.”

“Ssh.” Harry runs a hand through his hair, his touch so gentle that it almost lulls him back to sleep.

But he needs to tell Harry now. He wants to tell him now. So he catches Harry’s hand with his and turns his head into it to feel his palm against his skin.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry asks.

Zayn lets out a long, shaky breath before he says, “Yes.”

Harry presses a soft kiss on his forehead. “Okay. It’s okay. I’m here.” He takes Zayn’s hand and places it on his chest. “Feel that? Just focus on that. Maybe it’ll help you relax.”

Zayn wills his brain to concentrate on the feeling of Harry’s heart beating under his palm, and it distracts him long enough to calm down. He leans in to lightly brush his lips against Harry’s before he whispers, “Thank you.”

Harry lifts his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re welcome.”

*

Zayn tells Harry everything. Every fucking terrible thing. He doesn’t lie, he doesn’t sugarcoat it, he doesn’t spare him from the truth.

Harry listens to every word. He doesn’t interrupt, he doesn’t avert his gaze, he doesn’t let go of his hand.

Zayn doesn’t cry.

But Harry does. Zayn sees him biting his inner cheek to keep from crying, but the tears spill over anyway. Still, he doesn’t let go of Zayn’s hand. Not even to wipe away the tears streaming down his cheeks. So Zayn does it for him.

They stay like that for a while, holding onto each other as the darkness of night seeps through the windows.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks in a whisper after a long stretch of silence.

“I am now,” Zayn assures him. “But I may not be tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or a few months from now. There’s just no way to tell sometimes.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be here anyway.”

“Really?”

“I promise.”

Zayn brings a hand to the back of Harry’s head and pulls him closer so their temples are touching. He leans in and whispers, “Thank you,” because he doesn’t know what else to say that could fully encompass the relief and comfort and tenderness that he feels for him.

But then Harry presses a soft kiss to his temple, takes Zayn’s hands in his, and says, “How can I love you best right now?”

This is the one that breaks him.

This is the one that makes a strangled sob escape from his throat, makes his hands tremble, makes his lips quiver, makes him clutch his chest, makes his heart settle.

This is the one that makes him laugh. His eyes well up with tears as he laughs and laughs and laughs. He laughs, and it sounds like _holy shit_ , or _thank fuck_ , or _God, I love you._

Zayn glances at Harry, and he sees that he’s laughing and crying along with him. Harry looks at him with the warmest light in his eyes, and he knows that he loves him with every fiber of his being. He’s a fucking ray of sunshine in this godforsaken world, and he likes him so much, and he wants to be near him all the time, just so he can soak up some of his light and keep himself warm.

_How can I love you best right now?_

It’s so fucking simple. But it’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to him.

“Can we just stay right here for a little bit?”

“We can stay here as long as you like.”

*

That night, as Zayn wills his heart to settle, as he tries to steady his breathing, as he leans on Harry’s shoulder to transfer some of the weight from the sadness in his bones, Harry holds his hand and never lets go.

The room is dark, save for the light that bleeds through the windows from the street lamps outside. Silence fills the room, and it amplifies the racing thoughts in Zayn’s head. But Harry’s tracing comforting circles on his hand, and it gives Zayn something to focus on, and the noise in his head slowly fades until finally, the world goes quiet.

A wave of fatigue sweeps over Zayn, and his eyes flutter close before his head hits the pillow. Zayn turns on his side and reaches behind him to pull Harry’s hand and wrap his arm over his waist. Harry closes the distance between them and presses firmly against his back – the fact of him so close warms him up and fills him with ease. He places a soft kiss on the back of Zayn’s neck, making him sigh as his shoulders drop.

“Goodnight,” Harry whispers as he nuzzles his nose into Zayn’s hair.

“Night,” Zayn murmurs before he slips into a dreamless sleep.

*

The next day, Zayn wakes up even before the early morning sunlight touches his eyes. He lifts Harry’s hand to press a kiss to his knuckles before gently sliding out from under his arm. Zayn sits up and stretches his arms over his head as he yawns and leans against the headboard. He looks over at Harry next to him – all flushed cheeks and pretty pink pout and tangled curls – and he feels warmer, lighter, better.

 _Today’s a good day_ , he thinks. And he wants to keep it that way, so he takes out a notepad and a pen from his desk and sits back down on the bed to make a list.

Zayn smirks as he watches Harry wake up – eyes blinking slowly to get used to the light floating into the room and lips curving up into a smile. “Morning,” he says as he sits up and stretches his ridiculously long arms over his head. He yawns audibly before resting his head on Zayn’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“I’m making a list of things I want to do today.”

“Like what?”

“Just little things. So I can at least say that I did something today.”

Harry presses a kiss on his shoulder before sitting back up and leaning against the headboard. “Can I see it?”

Zayn passes him the notepad and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“Get up, put on sweatpants–” Harry begins to read, but he cuts himself off to grab the pen from Zayn’s hand. “Unnecessary,” he says as he crosses off the second item from the list.

Zayn giggles and curves into Harry’s shoulder. “I can’t just walk around naked all day.”

Harry smirks. “Yes, you can. And you will.” He leans in to give him a quick peck on the lips before going back to the list in his hand. “Walk to the kitchen, feed Rhino, make breakfast, clean room...” Harry trails off as he turns to look at Zayn. “Can I help?”

“You want to help me clean my room?” Zayn asks incredulously.

Harry shrugs. “I want to stay, so I might as well help.”

Zayn grins, warmth flooding his cheeks. “Okay.”

“You forgot to add something to your list, by the way.”

“What?”

Harry writes “Kiss Harry” above the first item on the list. “That should be the top priority.”

Zayn chuckles softly. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That should always be number one.”

“Because I’m your number one, right?” Harry asks with a teasing smirk.

Zayn replies by placing a hand on the back of Harry’s neck and pulling him in to give him a long, lingering kiss.

Harry smiles at him when they pull away and gives him back his pen. “You can cross it off your list now.”

“Maybe later,” Zayn says as he climbs over Harry’s lap and grabs his face for another kiss.

Later that day, they slowly go through each item on the list. Zayn opens the windows to let the air in before he feeds Rhino and gets started on breakfast. Harry plays songs from the ‘80s so they can sing along and dance around while they clean the house. They take a break every few minutes for Zayn’s sake and drink glasses of cold water with lemon as per Harry’s request. Harry joins Zayn as he takes Rhino out for a walk, and they stop by a store on the way to get some groceries. They make dinner together and do the dishes together and collapse on the couch right after.

That night, as they cross off the last item on the list, as they celebrate with a few glasses of wine, as they stand under a hot shower, as they crawl into bed with its freshly laundered sheets, as their chests press together and their lips touch, Zayn looks over at Harry – all flushed cheeks and pretty pink pout and tangled curls – and he feels warmer, lighter, better.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, on the cusp of sleep.

*

Harry comes over to Zayn’s house one night and asks him if he likes it when it rains. When Zayn says yes, he excitedly tells him about the negative ions in moving water and how it causes a biochemical reaction that reduces stress.

“That’s why the rain makes you feel calm. And why people always feel better after a thunderstorm.”

Zayn looks at Harry – this ridiculously beautiful boy, who brings the sun with him wherever he goes – and he feels lighter and warmer and happier. He leans in to kiss him on the cheek, but Harry turns his head at the last minute to press his lips against his.

“You want to know what else I learned today?” Harry asks with a cheeky grin.

“What?”

“There’s this substance called opiorphin, which is a natural painkiller that’s supposed to be more powerful than morphine. Research also shows that it exhibits specific antidepressant and psychostimulant effects.”

Zayn listens as he watches Harry’s mouth wrap around scientific words and his hands gesture wildly while he talks.

“Do you know where they first isolated opiorphin?” Harry asks with a smirk, and Zayn shakes his head in response. “Human saliva. So I can actually kiss you better. How awesome is that?”

Zayn lets out a loud chuckle. “I don’t think that’s how it works, but you are welcome to try.”

Harry schools his face into a serious expression before he pushes him back on the couch and straddles his lap. “Okay. But this is mainly for research purposes.”

“If you say so.”

That night, Harry downloads an app that simulates rain and thunderstorms. They fall asleep to the distant rumbles of thunder and the pitter-patter of rain.

*

Zayn finds Harry on his couch with an opened book against his chest as he sleeps.

These days, Harry pores over research papers and thick psychology books. He reads with rapt attention, uses sticky flags and multicolored highlighters, and takes down notes.

Harry always checks if he’s holding tension in his body and teaches him simple yoga poses. Sometimes, he even gives him massages – he’s not particularly good, but Zayn likes having Harry’s hands everywhere.

He draws him a bath every night because he knows how much Zayn likes it. Harry makes a big thing out of it – mixing bath salts and essential oils, lighting candles, making different playlists, opening a bottle of wine. Sometimes, they take baths together. But most of the time, Harry lets him relax as he sits on the floor and keeps him company.

They do a lot of arts and crafts together, mostly because it makes Harry happy. Stuff like macaroni art and finger paintings and beaded jewelry and all the things they used to make in school when they were kids. They visit museums and galleries, sign up for art classes, and explore different places that could help spark inspiration. Zayn likes to draw him, so Harry tries out different poses until he gets bored and just falls asleep on the chair. Sometimes, he just keeps him company as he paints. Some days, Harry gets his own easel, puts on a little outfit because he’s ridiculous, and makes something of his own.

Zayn loves it when Harry reads aloud to him. Poetry, fiction, children’s books, magazines, cookbooks, memoirs, erotica, classics, science fiction, Harlequin romances. He reads them all, and sometimes with different voices if the story calls for it. Zayn usually rests his head on Harry’s lap and focuses on his deep and raspy voice that reverberates through his chest. He loves how Harry speaks in that slow, languid manner that calms him down and lulls him to sleep.

Harry also makes him care packages, particularly on days when he’s sick or when they’re sleeping in their own apartments. The boxes are filled with Zayn’s favorite treats, new books, face masks, mixes, handwritten letters, and photos of Harry doing mundane things.

He leaves Post-it notes everywhere. Mostly to remind him of important things like deadlines and scheduled appointments. Sometimes, he yells at him on sticky notes to refill his prescriptions, water his plants, check expiration dates. But his favorites are the little doodles and messages that Harry leaves just to make him laugh.

Sometimes they need their own space, sometimes they share it in silence. Sometimes, they need to be pressed up together. Other times, they survive with just a look from across the room, a secret smile, a quick brush of fingertips against skin, a 4 a.m. phone call, a promise to see each other soon, a kiss on the cheek.

But sometimes, they’re not enough. There are days when he hates to eat because everything tastes the same. Days when he’s so numb that he wouldn’t even notice if he gets caught on fire. Nights he spends lying in wait for sleep to take him. Sometimes, he doesn’t talk. Other times, he forgets to clean his mess because he is his own mess and he can’t even fix himself so what’s the point?

They fight. Sometimes about little things, stupid things, important things. He always apologizes at the end of the day, but he doesn’t forgive himself for hurting Harry in any way.

Some days, his heart pounds against his chest as if it can no longer contain all the sadness that it holds. That’s when his chest quakes and everything spills over – sometimes at random, sometimes in secret, but never alone.

He knows that Harry is trying his best to understand. That’s why he surrounds himself with books and goes with him to his appointments because he wants to learn as much as he can. Zayn catches him talking to Doniya, and his heart swells at the thought of the two of them helping each other to help him.

_How can I love you best right now?_

Harry pays attention. He listens and watches for cues. When his hands shake, Harry steadies it. When the sadness in his bones is too heavy for him to lift, Harry bears the weight and makes it his. When his ribcage feels like it’s about to burst open as if his heart is not big enough to contain his glee, Harry wraps his arms around him to share it and celebrate it and make a world of it.

Harry does all of these things to help him make it through each day. He sees him on bad days and good days and just as he promised, he stays.

Zayn stares at this ridiculously beautiful boy with his halo of curls and impossibly pink lips, and he feels a spark behind his ribs that dances around and spreads like wildfire until he’s warm and radiating with it. He looks at him, and he knows that happiness is this. That he’s the luckiest person in the world. That he always has been.

He gently takes the book, sets it on the coffee table, and crawls into the space next to Harry. Zayn places a gentle hand on Harry’s chest, feels his heart beat under the skin of his palm, and falls asleep.

*

Safaa invites Harry to come over to their house for dinner and a movie. Zayn picks him up from the bookshop and holds his hand as he leads him to his childhood home.

He introduces Harry as his boyfriend to his parents, and he hears his sisters squeal with delight from across the room. Harry shakes his dad’s hand, kisses his mom on the cheek, and makes them fall in love with him just as his sisters did.

Dinner is perfect and so is the company. There’s so much food, and most of them are too spicy for Harry, but he tastes everything and compliments his mom on her cooking. Harry gets into a discussion about music with his dad, who shows him his record collection and plays a few of his favorites. His sisters fight for Harry’s attention, but he makes sure to spend time with all three of them – listening to their stories, showering them with compliments, and making them laugh so hard that they’re in tears by the end of it.

They watch _The Princess Bride_ because Safaa insisted on it, and what she says usually goes. Zayn and Harry sit on the floor with their backs against the couch and Safaa tucked into Harry’s side. They eat the pie that Harry brought with the ice cream that Zayn and Safaa bought, and it’s just such a lovely evening that it almost makes him weep.

At one point, Zayn asks Harry to scoot closer, and Harry looks him in the eye and whispers, “As you wish.” He will never admit it to anyone, but Zayn swears that it made him swoon.

As the night draws to a close, his sisters steal Harry away to spend more time with him before they go. Zayn stays in the living room with his parents, waiting patiently for them to say something about Harry, about him, about how he’s doing, about how he’s improving.

“He’s a lovely boy,” his mom says finally. “I like him.”

“Does he treat you well?” his dad asks.

“He does,” Zayn assures him.

“Do you love him?” his mom asks.

“I do,” Zayn admits quietly. “We haven’t exactly said it to each other, but I do.”

He hears his dad chuckle softly. “I’m sure he loves you, too. How could he not?”

Zayn curves in on himself, tongue tucked between his teeth, as he giggles.

“You’re a good boy. The best. You deserve someone who sees you for who you are and loves you all the same.”

“Dad...” he trails off, unable to continue because he doesn’t know what to say.

“I think this boy is good for you,” his dad says.

Zayn smiles at him. “I think he is, too.”

His mom tilts her head and looks at him with a fond smile. “You look happy.”

Zayn ducks his head to hide the flush on his cheeks. “I am. But I mean, it’s not just because of him. It’s because of you, too, and the girls, and everything else. I feel good. I’m in a good place. I’m happy.”

“Oh, love, I’m so happy to hear you say that,” his mom says as her eyes well up with tears. She wraps her arms around him in a tight embrace. “I love you.”

“I love you.” Zayn pulls away to kiss his mom on the cheek, then he turns to his dad to give him a hug. “I love you both. And thank you for putting up with me. I know it wasn’t easy, but I’m okay now. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

“Baby, we’ll always worry about you.”

*

That night, as they crawl under the covers, as they scoot closer until they’re pressed together in the middle of the bed, as Harry settles an arm around his waist, Zayn places a gentle hand on Harry’s cheek and says, “I love you.”

The silence is heavy around them, only the faint sounds of cars passing and dogs barking in the distance can be heard through the window. Zayn watches as the street lights dance around Harry’s face, making him shimmer in the darkness.

“I love you,” Zayn repeats, his thumb gently stroking along the line of Harry’s cheekbone. “Partly because of your love for books and poetry and terrible puns. Partly because you own a bookshop that has become my refuge. Partly because of your halo of curls. Partly because of your unnaturally pink mouth and the way it moves.”

Tears spill over Harry’s eyes as he giggles – loud and bright and genuine and warm. The sound drifts across the room and lights Zayn up from the inside.

“Partly because of your eyes. Partly because of your laughter. Partly because of your smile that makes my heart flutter. Partly because you radiate light. Partly because of the way you say my name. Partly because of your heart. Partly because of the way you make my world go quiet. Partly because my family has fallen head over heels in love with you. Partly because you make something as simple as sharing a carbonated drink feel as if it’s the most important thing in the world because it’s with you. Partly because being around you feels like coming home. You feel like home.”

Harry leans forward and buries his face in Zayn’s neck, muffling his cries against his skin.

Zayn presses a kiss on top of Harry’s head. “I saw you, and I made up my mind. You’re my person, and I love you.”

Harry pulls away to look at him, his eyes glistening with tears. A slow smile curls in the corner of his mouth before he says, “I hate you for turning me into a blubbering mess. Except I don’t. I really don’t. Because I love you. You’re my person, and I love you.”

Zayn cups the back of Harry’s head with one hand and pulls him in to bring their mouths together. Harry makes a soft sound as their lips touch, and it’s enough to drown out all the noise from outside and in his head.

After a while, they pull away to rest their foreheads together and just breathe.

Harry runs a feather-light finger along the line of Zayn’s cheekbone. “I love this. I love you. And your eyelashes. The crinkles around your eyes when you smile. Your voice and the way you say my name. Your intelligence and sarcasm and quick wit. The glazed look on your face when you get so lost in what you’re doing. Your fond exasperation when you think I’m being ridiculous. How much you love your family. How much they love you. The parts that you think are broken. All the parts you hide from the rest of the world. Your gentle soul. Your kindness. Your heart. Your quiet strength. I love all of it, Zayn. I love all of you.”

Zayn smiles as he buries his face in Harry’s neck, nuzzling his nose into his hair and pressing a soft kiss right below his ear. Harry runs his fingers up and down the length of his back – his touch so soft, so gentle that it makes everything else slowly float away as they fall asleep.

*

He thinks of strawberries – plump and red and sweet. Zayn thinks of strawberries as he watches Harry pout in his sleep. Harry murmurs something indecipherable as he scoots closer to Zayn, who catches a whiff of vanilla and oranges on his bare skin.

Sunbeams slant through the windows and dance across Harry’s face, which belongs in Renaissance paintings. He looks like Raphael’s angel – sweet, innocent, pensive, aesthetically pleasing. Last night, as they writhed and sighed and set themselves on fire, Harry looked at him with a smile so heartbreakingly gentle that he melted at the sight of it and came apart at the thought of it, the thought of him, here, now, tomorrow, everyday, everywhere, everywhen, just him, only him,  _Harry Harry Harry_.

“Harry,” he whispers, letting the name swirl around his tongue. It suits him, he thinks. Simple, classic, formidable. An ordinary name for a magical boy, just like his wizard namesake.

Zayn lightly brushes his fingertips against Harry’s cheek, and he sees a hint of a smile tempting the corner of his impossibly pink mouth. “Harry,” he repeats.

Harry turns to bury his face into the pillow and hide his grin.

Zayn tucks a curl behind Harry’s ear and pokes him gently on the cheek. “Harry, wake up.”

He hears him chuckle softly before his eyes flutter open, and a gradual curl of his lips spreads into a smile. Harry scoots closer until he’s pressed against Zayn’s chest and settles an arm around his waist. “Morning,” Harry mumbles against his skin.

They stay like that for a while, relishing the quiet before the rest of the world wakes up. Harry lightly traces the swirls of ink on Zayn’s arm as if he’s memorizing them – his touch so soft, so gentle that it makes him want to go back to sleep.

Zayn’s about to drift off when he hears his phone ring. He reaches behind him for his phone and answers Doniya’s call. “Good morning. Yes, I’m okay. How’s everyone?”

Harry presses a kiss to his chest before he rolls away and gets out of bed. Zayn reaches out to tug Harry’s hand and pull him back in, making him stumble and fall on top of him. He tucks a curl behind Harry’s ear before he kisses him – softly, slowly, gently.

Doniya teases him over the phone, and he laughs against Harry’s mouth. “Shut up. We’re not.”

Harry leans in to quickly brush his lips against Zayn’s before he rolls away from him and gets out of bed. “Say hello to Doniya for me.”

“Harry says hello,” Zayn says as he watches Harry pull on his sweatpants and leave the room.

“ _I’m proud of you. In case I haven’t told you lately.”_

“You told me yesterday,” he says, which makes Doniya laugh.

“ _You’re doing so well, and you look so happy, and I’m just so proud of you.”_

Zayn’s heart swells with so much love and gratitude for his older sister, who’s been there with him through it all. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.”

“ _Yes, I helped. We all did. But you were the one who forced yourself to get up everyday. You’re the one who carried yourself when everything hurt and you couldn’t move. You were patient, and you were forgiving, and you tried so hard to get better every single day. You stayed so sweet and kind even when you were in pain and the rest of the world was cruel. You took care of yourself, babe. And you should be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you. We all are.”_

Zayn chokes back a sob and buries his face into the pillow. His heart breaks as he thinks back to a few years ago, when he was merely a sad pile of bones. He felt so alone, and so lonely and terrified, and so hopeless that it hurts to even think about it.

Recovery isn’t always neat and easy, and it’s difficult to keep track of his progress. So he doesn’t realize how far he’s come until it’s pointed out to him. But fuck, it feels so good. To realize that he’s put himself back together. To know that he survived. He still has a long way to go, but he’s putting one foot in front of the other, and he knows he’ll get there in time.

Last night, Harry told him a joke that was so bad and so stupid that it was hilarious, and he laughed so hard for so long that Harry had to hug him to absorb some of his laughter and remind himself to breathe.

And it felt so fucking good to just laugh, and to laugh with someone he loves so fiercely, and to love with every fiber of his being, and to just be.

“ _You still there?”_

“I’m here,” he says, and it hits him how true it is. That he’s here, that he’s getting better, that he made it through. “I’m here,” he repeats.

“ _Well done, love. I’m proud of you.”_

“Thank you. I love you.”

“ _I love you.”_

Zayn shuffles into the kitchen and hugs Harry from behind, pressing a kiss on his shoulder before nuzzling his nose into his tangle of curls. His breath tickles Harry’s neck and he laughs – the sound bouncing off the walls and lighting him up from the inside.

Harry turns around to face him, to drink him in, to flash him a smile that warms him up, to press a soft kiss to his lips. Zayn’s heart swells at the sight of him, at the look in his eyes, at the promise of tomorrow, and the hope for days ahead.

He looks at him, and he knows that he’s the luckiest person in the world. That he always has been. And he always will be.

Here is a boy named after wizards and kings and legendary folks – the kind of characters that populate his favorite stories. He looks at him, and he doesn’t see someone who’s weak or broken or a sad pile of bones. He doesn’t look at him like he needs to be fixed or saved because he knows that he is strong and brave in his own quiet way.

He’s not the hero of this story, but he’s there because he wants to be. And it’s through his eyes that Zayn sees that he’s worthy, he’s important, he’s understood, he’s loved. Zayn recognizes that some days he’s the knight, other days he’s the dragon, and on the worst days, he has to be both. But he’s here, he’s alive, and he’s doing just fine.

Here, with a boy named after wizards and kings, and in the circle of his arms, Zayn feels like he belongs. He loves this ridiculously beautiful boy, who sees him for who he is and loves him all the same. Zayn knows that he doesn’t need anyone to make him feel complete. He can survive on his own – he’s been doing it for so long – but sometimes he needs a hand to hold. And Harry’s hands are steady and warm, and his touch is soft and gentle. And his presence fills him with ease, and he fits into the empty place in his heart.

He wants to tell him that he’s trying his best, but it’s never easy, and sometimes it’s so fucking terrible and exhausting, but he’ll keep trying – one foot after the other – because it’s worth it. Yes, the sadness is still there, and it will probably never go away. But he’s trying, and he’ll keep trying, because sometimes that’s all he can do, and sometimes that’s enough.

Zayn knows that nobody is built to be happy, that happiness isn’t always guaranteed, but Harry makes him feel like he is, and he makes him believe that he deserves it.

The world goes quiet around him, and Zayn hears his heart beat. Still fighting. Still breathing. He’s here, he made it, he’ll make it again, and he’ll make it once more.

Zayn still has a long way to go, but he’ll get there in time. For now, he has this.

He looks at Harry, and he knows. That he no longer wants to be elsewhere. That he makes him feel a little less lonely, a little less lost. That happiness is this: here, now, with him. That being around him feels like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A list of things referenced in this chapter:
> 
>  _Love Is a Dog from Hell_ by Charles Bukowski  
>   
>  "Marginalia" by Billy Collins ("Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.")  
>   
> "Bukowski" by Modest Mouse ("And yeah, I know he’s a pretty good read. But God who’d want to be such an asshole?")  
>   
>  _[Daytripper](https://smoke-flowers.tumblr.com/post/171764499123/i-just-re-read-daytripper-and-am-now-sitting-with)_ by Fabio Moon and Gabriel Ba  
>   
>  _A Little Life_ by Hanya Yanagihara  
>   
>  _Howl’s Moving Castle_ by Diana Wynne Jones  
>   
> ["Having a Coke with You"](https://smoke-flowers.tumblr.com/post/169958180638) by Frank O’Hara ("This is like that Frank O’Hara poem.")

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I hope, with every fiber of my being, that this story will encourage people to show a little bit of kindness because we never really know what someone's going through everyday. Also, this is a reminder that your feelings are valid, and you shouldn't apologize for who you are and how you feel. Most importantly, this is to let you know that you are here, you are important, you are loved, you are worthy. It's okay if you can't do anything today because you can always try again tomorrow. Sometimes that's all you can do. Sometimes, that's enough. You're doing the best you can, and I'm proud of you.
> 
> If you wish to talk, send me a note on [Tumblr](https://smoke-flowers.tumblr.com) and I’ll reply. I promise.


End file.
